Archive » August 2014 » Columns

A point I have always tried to make with my students or participants in one of my field trips is that geologists have a name for absolutely every natural process involving the rocky sphere that is Planet Earth.  And one of the wonderful things that has happened in recent decades is that scientists have sent robot probes to examine the surfaces of other planets, as well as asteroids and comets, and have found not only that many of the same processes occur on worlds as alien as the Moon, Venus, and Mars, but have discovered exciting evidence of other geologic phenomena unknown on Earth and waiting to be explained.

Over the past few days, the Internet has been sizzling with reactions to a rock photographed by the Curiosity Rover that has a passing resemblance to a thighbone.  Given the fact that not one of the robots sent there has yet found persuasive evidence that anything as large as a microbe ever lived on Mars, the curiously shaped rock is unlikely to be anything but that:  a curiously shaped rock.

But the various chat rooms that dwell on such things are buzzing with charges that NASA (the National Aeronautics and Space Administration) is once again concealing evidence of macrobiotic life on Mars and those who disagree are denounced in vitriolic (and often hilariously ungrammatical) language.

Yet the fact is that the natural processes which change the shape of Earth’s surface are sometimes capable of producing very curious results:  hence, the chess-piece shapes of the rocky towers of Bryce Canyon, the elegantly sculptured mesas and buttes of Monument Valley, and the granite profile of New Hampshire’s Old Man of the Mountains that collapsed ignominiously some years ago into a heap of rubble due to frost-wedging.

A few weeks back, on emerging from a trip with some students through one of the caves near the village of Clarksville, I noticed some odd, miniscule features on a pile of muddy debris at the cave’s entrance.  The debris was glacial drift, deposited on the Clarksville area by one of the streams pouring off the melting Ice Age glaciers thousands of years ago: hundreds of penny-sized and smaller pebbles in a matrix of packed clay.

But many of the pebbles stood atop a small, thin column of that clay, forming tiny structures geologists call by the French term “damoiselles”— which loosely translates as “little maidens.” Evidently, to the French-speaking geologists who coined the name, the pebbles resembled broad bonnets perched atop the slender structures below.

This happens when rain water or melting snow cascades down an exposure of soft sediment, washing away anything that is not protected by the tiny pebbles; their weight has slightly compressed and hardened the materials on which they sit.

In many places in the world, these structures appear on a much larger scale.  Chimney Bluffs State Park on Lake Ontario features enormous examples, which are often given the name “hoodoos” when they form such massive structures.  A somewhat smaller display of hoodoos appears on the mysteriously named “Ghost Fire Bend” of the Normanskill, though these are currently not accessible by car with the closing of Grant Hill Road due to road work.

In June of this year, while on a hiking trip to New Mexico, I had the opportunity to visit Tent Rocks State Park on the reservation of the Cochiti Pueblo, southwest of Santa Fe.  The preserve was originally given the Keresan language name Kasha-Katuwe, which is usually translated as “rocks that resemble teepees.” 

Here, between 6 million and 7 million years ago, the land was buried under the debris from an incredibly violent volcanic eruption that formed the Jemez Caldera, a giant bowl-shaped depression to the north.  Layers of the soft, spongy-looking rock known as pumice, compacted rock fragments called tuff, and volcanic ash buried the region in layers hundreds of feet thick.

The weight of all of that air-borne sediment compacted the strata into a crumbly matrix rock that weathers easily due to the wildly varying seasonal temperatures and is poorly resistant to erosion by the occasional rainfall or melting snow.  But mixed in with the smaller rock fragments are boulders, some the size of an automobile, and these had the effect of compressing and compacting the sediments that lay beneath them. Thus the sediments were protected from the raging, highly erosive waters that flow during those occasional periods in arid climates when sudden torrential rains fall.

The results are the hoodoos of Kasha-Katuwe, and they are marvels to behold.

Those found near the parking area for the preserve’s trailheads gave Tent Rocks its name. There are a dozen or more of them, ranging in height from a couple of yards to 20 or 30 feet, but these represent the last stage in the erosion cycle of the hoodoos.  They have lost their protective boulder caps and, in respect to geologic time, they are not long for this world.

Though this part of the Southwest is currently experiencing a severe decade-long drought, every drop of rain that does fall is washing them down to ground level, the eventual fate of all hoodoos.

To get a better idea of nature’s inventive sculpting talents, one must hike up one of the two major trails that head into the park.  They are easy for the experienced hiker, though the lack of shade and the unforgiving summer sun make it mandatory to carry a couple of quarts of water.  In addition, signs warn of poisonous snakes lurking in the underbrush — sufficient cause for those inclined to bushwhack to stay on trail.

A textbook example of the formation of the hoodoos lies on the edge of the eroding mesa around which the trail meanders.  Rising some 20 feet from the middle of a dry wash, the structure is crowned by a large boulder of pumice.

Farther along the trail, the hoodoos become larger and more varied in shape and one particularly steep slope offers a view of their entire life cycle:  some eroded down to mere stubs, some proudly displaying their protective caps, and others just beginning to emerge from the eroding cliffs.

They derive their weird shapes from the varying hardness of the rock strata from that they form. A slot canyon cut into the rock by raging waters offers a shady respite from the heat and climaxes in a hair-raisingly steep and exposed series of switchbacks leading to a jaw-dropping view out over the canyon to Sandia Mountain above Albuquerque.

The American Southwest — particularly in New Mexico and Arizona — features some spectacular geology due to its diverse rock types; its wildly varying elevations; and its climate, which tends to be arid but is subject to sudden intense flooding.

Terms such as “weathering,” “erosion,” “resistance,” “strata,”  “frost wedging,” and other prosaic expressions may seem lifeless on the page of the textbook.  But, in an environment such as Tent Rocks State Park, these dry words describe nature’s endlessly varied talent to create wonders in the rock from which Earth is made.

Here's a great word we don't often hear spoken but that we deal with (at least I do) all the time: conundrum.

According to my faithful dictionary, a conundrum is an intricate or difficult problem. See what I mean? You don't hear the word conundrum a lot but you sure experience it all the time. Let's take a look at some of the conundrums I deal with on a regular basis.

My kids have all turned out to be good drivers; my wife is, too. (She even tells me she was Driver of the Year in high school.) Empirically, I accept this and yet, when any of them are driving and I'm a passenger, the level of fear, even panic, that I feel is palpable and quite disturbing.

My wife's car has a handle over the passenger door and I often squeeze it so hard I wonder if I'll break it. I really don't know why I feel this way — they really are good, safe drivers and I'm glad for that.

But put me in the passenger seat and I'm sweating bullets. Probably it's the simple lack of control you feel as a passenger, which is reasonable in my case since I'm the driver maybe 98 percent of the time I'm in a car. But that 2 percent! Oh boy, now that's a conundrum.

Cat conniptions

If you've been on the Internet at all, you know that probably 50 percent of it is cat related: photos, videos, Facebook posts, anecdotes, etc. This paradigm plays out in my house as well, as I'm surrounded by cat lovers and not one, not two, but three, count 'em, three indoor cats.

My family gets such intense pleasure and enjoyment from these often quite aloof animals that, if I didn't see it for myself, I wouldn't believe it. Now I don't have anything against outdoor cats; they earn their keep by preying on vermin, though I can't stand when they attack the beautiful birds, nature’s lovely natural singers, that I love so much.

My problem is with indoor cats and specific behaviors of theirs that I just don't like: going up on kitchen counters (and, yes, they do this when you're not there); throwing up all over the house and leaving disgusting hair balls everywhere; hunting and stalking everything that moves; and sniffing the food apprehensively every time they approach it — which is all the time — when it's the exact same food that sits out there 24/7/365.

Suffice it to say I'm not a "cat fancier," yet I'm prevented by the democratic process from getting rid of the furry little pests, er, I mean the lovely wonderful things. Now if that's not a conundrum I don't know what is. Thank God for single-malt scotch.

One time the pastor at church told a story about a cat who left the house and returned six months later. As the congregation oohed and aahed over the almost Biblical return, I'm sitting there going, "What I wouldn't give for six months’ peace and tranquility."

I know, I have issues. Still, to me it was a great sermon. Six months! One can only dream.

One of the cats is on a prescription — probably stress from having so much to do all day — and I was sent to the drugstore to fill it. The druggist calls me over and says, "Palmeri?"

Yes I say.

Then he goes, "First name?"

So, in front of all the other druggists and the customers, he made me say out loud, "Snickers."

How embarrassing is that. Please go away for six months!

Channel-changing challenge

Let's say you're changing channels before the game comes on and you happen upon a Seinfeld episode. Despite the fact that you've seen these over and over and know all the jokes, if you let yourself linger, it's all too easy to get sucked in and then you've wasted a half-hour.

You know it's going to happen and you still can't do anything about it. Talk about conundrum city.

Regretting the missed ritual

When my faithful Toyota Sienna died, I had to find another vehicle quickly. I wound up getting another mini-van, and, even though its used, it has a pretty good warrantee, but get this — the warrantee is only in effect if I let the dealer do the oil changes.

You might think this is no big deal, and for some it may not be, but for me it has turned out to be one of the worst decisions I've ever made.

Here's the thing: Today's cars are so complex and full of electronics that there's really not much a dedicated owner like me can do mechanically any more, save for the good old oil change. When I do them, it's like a ritual: a nice warm day, garage door open, with dirty hot oil draining into a pan and "Car Talk" on the radio.

Then I'll go mow the lawn while every last bit of nasty old oil gets drained. Finally, I'll put in a new filter, inspect everything under the car, and then pour in the best oil I can find so I know I'm good to go for many thousands of miles. Now, all of a sudden, because of this stupid warrantee situation, I can't even have the simple time-honored pleasure of doing an oil change on my own vehicle.

What a colossal mistake I made. Unlike many obvious conundrums, I didn't even realize that not being able to change my own oil would be a conundrum until it was too late. Live and learn, ain't it the truth.

To add insult to injury, the one oil change the dealer did do, it royally screwed up. Sometimes it really does go from bad to worse, but at least I learn from my mistakes — I will never buy a vehicle from a dealer that insists it has to do the oil changes again.

Doctor duty

Deciding when to call the doctor is always a conundrum for me. In my experience, most things get better over time, but the self-diagnosis game is not always easy to play (especially when you're married).

The one that always gets me is when you go to bed feeling fine and then wake up with a cold or a headache or a sore back. I thought sleep was supposed to be restful?

For me to have to agree to see a doctor, it has to be something obvious, like an open wound or worse. True, I like reading magazines but I prefer to do it on my own time rather than in a waiting room if at all possible, and, while I do like my doctor very much, seeing her once a year is just fine, thank you very much.

Maxing the motorcycle

My motorcycle is precision-made in Germany and is easily capable of keeping up triple-digit speeds all day on the Autobahn. The conundrum is, we don't have an Autobahn on this side of the pond, so there are not many legal ways to take advantage of this awesome performance.

Every now and then, discretion goes out the window and I wind up with what I euphemistically call a "performance award," that is, a speeding ticket. Lest you surmise that this is simply flippant behavior on my part, be aware that, when your are dealing with a modern, high performance car or motorcycle, it is so easy, because of the smooth and effortless performance, to be on your merry way and not even realize you're over the speed limit, it happens so fast.

I think someday I'll add a sidecar to my bike for the grandkids to ride in; that will slow me down for sure. Until then, for the sake of my license and my insurance rates, I better figure this conundrum out post-haste.

In addition, there are all kinds of mini-conundrums to deal with throughout the day: boxers or briefs (or nothing?); Coke or Pepsi (there is a difference); the highway or the back road (speed or scenery); and many more. It all comes down to making decisions. When you make more right decisions than bad ones you're having a good day. It's as simple as that.
Conundrums can be trivial or complex, harmless or painful, plentiful or sparse, but they are always there and waiting for you to decide what to do. Good luck with your conundrums