Each year, the Lunar and Planetary Science Conference condenses more and more people into the Waterway Marriott in The Woodlands, Texas. It’s reaching a critical mass. This year, around 2,046 abstracts were accepted for presentation in talk or poster form. There’s too much to sift through except in your specific field, but I wanted to branch out a bit. So I put out a call on Twitter for a random number between 1001 and 3046 (the numbering system starts at 1001). Lockwood chose 2601, and from that abstract (PDF link) we have the topic of this post: Plumes on Enceladus.
This well-written abstract covers a few interesting points on using satellite photos to infer geological processes. The Cassini spacecraft has a narrow angle camera with broadband filters. These filters allow specific wavelengths of light, ranging from ultraviolet to infrared, to pass through. The wavelengths of light, in turn, are affected by objects they bounce off of. Different minerals reflect or absorb specific wavelengths of light differently, a feature used in many remote observations of planetary bodies to infer (deduce?) surface composition.
Paul Schenk and the other authors of this abstract used surface images filtered using two infrared spectra and one ultraviolet spectrum. One of the main goals of their analysis was to use our observations of Enceladus to use as a comparison to what we are beginning to study on Europa. There are issues to be worked out, with, for example, how the orientation of the spacecraft relative to the surface of a world will affect the observed spectra. If light is uniformly scattered by an object, then we can observe it from any angle and it will look the same. But if there is directionality to the scattering, then the angle we observe will affect what we observe. That will be an issue if we have more limited observations (like at Europa).
The project began with a simple question prompted by this thin section. Notice anything particular about it? Ruminate for a bit while I fill in some details.
That there is a little slice of nuclear post-detonation material called Trinitite. I spent 2014 working the stuff, which is a glassy product of the first atomic bomb detonation. On a July morning in 1945, the Plutonium-powered nuclear device was detonated at the Trinity site of the White Sands Proving Grounds in Alamagordo, New Mexico. The test yielded the equivalent of ~20 kilotons, the fireball exceeded 8000ºC, and it created a ~1 km wide (shallow) crater.
Typical atomic bomb stuff. The terrible fireball is eye-catching, sure, but as a geologist my gaze is usually drawn to ground level. Fewer people appreciate what’s going on down there (until there’s a house in frame to obliterate). There’s a supersonic shock wave, and the upper surface gets scoured by heat and wind. It is a chaotic mixture of bomb material and local geology — and an interesting, unique mixture at that. Nuclear materials have certain fingerprints – chemically and isotopically – that can be tied to a source or sources. During the explosive process, this signature gets imprinted in post-detonation material (typically acronym’d as PDMs). Trinitite is the first such human-made material. It is not the first ever because there are natural fission reactors in some parts of the world where uranium has built up over time and “gone nuclear”.
So back to the thin section that started it all. Notice anything unusual about the bubbles? Our question was simple: why are there so many bubbles along the bottom? Is that a real feature, or are we seeing patterns in randomness?
In looking at that and a couple additional samples, it was apparent that something was different between the top and bottom vesicles. With a simple hypothesis to test, it was time to measure. So I ran statistical analysis of the size and shape of bubbles in vertically cut trinitite sections. What we found agreed with our initial impressions, and our findings were published in a PLOS ONE paper earlier this year (and free to read).
It turned out there was more to see than just “more vesicles at greater depth”. In each of the samples we studied, the upper 2-3 mm was relatively devoid of bubbles. Below this region, there was an increase in the size, number, and elongation of vesicles. All this points to a different formation mode between the upper and lower zones. Our current sequence of events starts with the blast heat melting the desert surface to a few mm deep. There was enough moisture to cause extreme bubbling as the melt degassed (released water vapor and other volatiles to the atmosphere). As the fireball grew into the classic mushroom shape, it drew air inward. This cooler air quenched the upper surface of the glass, but there was enough heat and/or water in the glass to cause further bubbling while maintaining at least a semi-molten state. However, the bubbles were trapped and couldn’t degas at the surface. Thus the lower bubbles had time to grow together and flattened out below the quench zone, in the 2-3 mm deep region. There was also some “late” (a few seconds to minutes) contribution from fallback, where particles in the fireball settled out in a molten (or partially molten) rain. Our sequence matches well with previous interpretations of Trinitite formation. We hope it shows this type of textural analyses is a useful complement to other techniques in nuclear forensic analysis.
In the end, it was a fun little article to write, and reinforced the idea that it just takes an off-the-cuff observation to start an interesting research project.
The Apollo missions returned 2200 samples comprising “382 kilograms (842 pounds) of lunar rocks, core samples, pebbles, sand and dust from the lunar surface” (quoted from ref). Since then, we’ve sliced, diced, dissolved, vaporized, irradiated, and applied just about every other analytical tool to investigate these samples. An incomplete list of geochemical investigative techniques used includes: electron microprobe, instrumental neutron activation analysis, various mass spectrometry techniques (multi-collector, laser ablation, thermal ionization, time-of-flight, secondary ion), X-ray fluorescence, and cathodoluminescence. The results of these studies are scattered across the past 46 years of published literature, in various formats and accessibility.
Most lunatics probably have a ragtag collection of spreadsheets incorporating personally vetted data from the literature. But it is easy to miss good papers, and time consuming to re-type poorly scanned copies. I have spent a fair bit of time hunting down literature data on lunar basalts, and these important datasets are not always easy to find or re-use in a useful way. To make this process easier, MoonDB aims to serve as an open access data repository for lunar geochemical and petrological data. It is led by Kerstin Lehnert, PI of the EarthChem/PetDB project.
MoonDB (http://www.moondb.org/) is launching a program to restore and preserve lunar geochemical analytical data. The framework will be nearly identical to the Petrological Database (PetDB), where geochemical data from terrestrial studies are freely available. The framework is still under development, but it appears they have data from 500+ papers archived and awaiting release.
In addition to incorporating peer reviewed article data, MoonDB plans to serve as a “publishing” venue for otherwise unpublished datasets. Researchers occasionally collect more data then they eventually need to include in a manuscript. Or they might perform foray analyses on samples for projects that never go anywhere. MoonDB hopes to rescue these from eventual hard drive failure and publish them in a citable format. It would also be a way for instrument techs and lab managers, who might not be publishing regularly, to get some additional credit via citable works. For researchers with NASA funding, MoonDB may suffice to meet the newly implemented Data Management Plan requirements.
The topic of unpublished datasets drew the most discussion at a MoonDB lunch/seminar during the Lunar and Planetary Science Conference in March 2016. Quality control was probably the biggest concern, especially when discussing the possibility of future versions of MoonDB incorporating geochronology datasets. Without context, you can calculate just about any date you want from a sample set (but really, this applies to published values as well). To combat this and other potential issues, unpublished datasets will be subject to internal review, and/or may be sent to external reviewers. In some cases, these may end up being more closely scrutinized than if they had been published online as supplementary material to a paper. On the subject of context, there is a potentially powerful (if it gets used) ability to link analyses with specific locations to sample photos (e.g., on thin sections).
MoonDB is still seeking feedback from lunar researchers on community needs. Those who have previously submitted data to PetDB or earthchem could be especially helpful in spotting customizations necessary for lunar datasets.
Morgen and I spent a few hours hiking in the blast zone of Mt. St. Helens. Around us were signs of recovery from that singular event. But in reality, it really wasn’t a single event, isolated in time. Especially for Washingtonians. The dramatic and deadly initial blast rightfully receives significant coverage when talking about May 18th. But for ten hours (hours!) afterward, Mt St. Helens continued to erupt rock fragments (tephra) that spread across eastern Washington.
Our base of operations was in central Washington near Yakima, 120 miles east of Mt. St Helens. After our hike, our host told us her story about that day in 1980 Yakima: The weather forecast was for sunny skies; Yakima gets 300 days of sun a year, you know. But as she readied for church, the skies began to darken. It wasn’t long before she recognized the event would be rather unique. She placed a small bowl outside the door to catch some of the falling pyroclastic material. With my geology background, she knew she had my attention when she said “I think I still have it around here tucked away in a closet somewhere…Would you want to take some with you?”
The lunar basalts in my doctoral research were almost four billion years old, plus or minus a couple hundred million years. The rocks I study now were created on July 16th, 1945, at 05:29:45 AM (Mountain War Time). It’s a strange thing to know so precisely. But how can I pinpoint the exact second of creation? Because these rocks are trinitite, the glassy result of a sandy New Mexico desert experiencing the first atomic bomb blast.
The first nuclear bomb test, codenamed Trinity, was performed at the White Sands Proving Grounds (near Alamogordo, New Mexico). The device, Gadget, was an implosion-type design with a plutonium (Pu-239) core. The heat resulting from the 18 kiloton explosion melted the desert sand surface out to distances of 400 meters from ground zero. The surface sand melted to form a glassy layer (1-2 cm) on top of incipiently melted desert sand together, these form trinitite (alternatively, Alamogordo glass). This post-detonation material is a valuable tool in nuclear forensics research. Trinitite incorporated pieces of Gadget and the blast tower, and one of our goals is to identify and characterize the distribution and composition of individual components through geochemical and radionuclide analysis. At right, a vertical cross-section of trinitite is shown in thin section.
The analysis of postdetonation material (like trinitite) is one arm of the nuclear forensics field. An effective nuclear forensic analysis requires technical information and relevant databases, and specialized skills and expertise to generate, analyze, and interpret the data. This analysis combined with law enforcement and intelligence data can provide valuable information on the provenance of such materials, and processing history so as to improve source attribution. Identifying the source(s) of stolen or illicitly trafficked nuclear materials will therefore prevent, or make more difficult, terrorist acts that would use material from these same sources. Moreover, effective forensic analysis of postdetonation materials in the unlikely event of a nuclear terrorist attack is also expected to deter individuals or groups involved, and provides incentives to countries to enhance their security and safeguards relative to their nuclear materials and facilities.
The microscopic and macroscopic appearance, as well as the elemental and isotopic composition of nuclear materials, i.e. its ‘signature’ reflects its entire history. The term ‘signature’ is used to describe material characteristics that may be used to link nuclear samples to people, places, and processes, much as a written signature can be used to link a document to a particular person. Forensic methods employed to establish signatures in nuclear materials typically combine physical and chemical (e.g. X-ray fluorescence, scanning electron microscopy, electron microprobe analysis, secondary ion mass spectrometry) characterization and radiometric measurements (e.g. alpha, beta and gamma spectroscopy). The methodologies and interpretation of forensic analyses are constantly being advanced and perfected.
At this year’s annual meeting of the Geological Society of America, the Notre Dame crew (Drs. Tony Simonetti, Sara Mana, and myself) are chairing a session to update the geoscience community on the latest developments of nuclear forensics. The cleverly-titled session, “Advances in Nuclear Forensics”, will emphasize analytical techniques, database development, and implications for our ability to identify and possibly prevent nuclear attacks and trafficking of illicit nuclear materials.
UPDATE (Aug 9, 2014): The session has been designated a poster session.
Note: A significant portion of this post was reused from our session proposal, which isn’t published by GSA.
Ian D. Hutcheon, Michael J. Kristo and Kim B. Knight (2013) Nonproliferation nuclear forensics (PDF), in: Uranium: Cradle to Grave (edited by Peter C. Burns and Ginger E. Sigmon). Mineralogical Association of Canada Short Course 43, 377-394.
Pat: We left off last time resting our legs in the Sunrise Visitor Center parking lot. It was a good stop, but now it is time to leave Sunrise and continue on our way to Mt. St. Helens. Turns out our Sunrise jaunt lasted almost until sunset, so we’ll have to stop somewhere for the night. Fortunately, it is the offseason and we have our pick of spots in the La Wis Wis Campground. Definitely pick a spot along the Ohanapecosh River to get easy access to the riverside. Perfect for morning tea. In fact, I’ll step out for a moment to finish my cuppa, and let Morgen step in.
Morgen: Morgen here! I’m the lady pointing at the river. Pat has (perhaps rather foolishly), left his blog in my hands, so I’ll do my best to help finish this story. First, a disclaimer: I am not a geologist. I’m an environmental engineer studying bacterial motility, so if you’re hoping for lots of insightful geologic-y things, you’re out of luck. Thanks to Ms. Frizzle and her magic school bus, I know the difference between igneous, sedimentary and metamorphic rocks, but that’s pretty much it. Regardless, I will do my best to learn you a thing or two.
P: Try not to spend all morning down by the river. There’s still a two-hour woodsy drive to Mt. St. Helens. Unlike from the west, our eastern approach doesn’t yield any glimpses of Mt. St. Helens until you are within the park. It is a fun, windy road through the Gifford Pinchot National Forest, with little indication of the nearby volcanic history. Then, suddenly, you get Mt. St. Helens’d.
P: While not the first roadside pullout, the Cascade Peaks overlook is located on the edge of the lateral blast zone to the northeast. Some of the tall pines in this area are untouched, but many, like the one in the photo above, are skeletons of their former selves. Ten miles out, we are in the zone of the “standing dead”. Even here, the air temperature during the eruption exceeded 100°C (Winner and Casadevall 1983) and killed many trees, but the force of the blast had dissipated enough to leave them baking upright. A little further on and the landscape changes rapidly.
P: Those of you with a passing interest in volcanoes have likely seen photos of once-forested hillsides newly draped in a blanket of tree trunks.
M: Seeing this in person can be somewhat unnerving, given that trees are supposed to a) stand upright, and b) not be stripped of branches, leaves, bark, etc. It’s a stark reminder of the power the Earth periodically unleashes on the surface.
M: The Windy Ridge Observatory lies at the end of the winding trek through the blast zone. It certainly deserved its name, and the constant winds may help to explain why the Johnson Ridge Observatory is the more visited of the two. A short hike brings you to a wonderful vantage point, from which you can see Spirit Lake, clogged with trees blown into it by the 1980 eruption, and St. Helen’s caldera.
P: Is there a word for the desensitization that follows word repetition? When you say, for example, “pine” ad nauseam: Pine. Pine. Pine, pine pine pine pine, pine pinepinepine. Eventually, “pine” becomes just another sound, and you lose the mental association with the tree (or cone). That, I think, is the dissonance that takes root when I see photos of Spirit Lake. We all know that the tan raft up there is made up of individual trees, but it’s all just “tree, tree, treetreetreetree…yeah, that’s a lot of trees. Look, water.” Being there, it is much easier to make that connection between the trees and the scarred hillsides from which they came.
M: Mt. St. Helens’ caldera got its unique shape due to the nature of the eruption that created it. Before magma began building up, St. Helens was an almost perfect example of a composite volcano (imagine Mt. Fuji in Japan if you need a modern equivalent). Unfortunately, this perfection was not to last, as the magma building up under the earth caused the northern face of the mountain to bulge. When the eruption finally did occur, it blasted out, not up, leaving the inside of the volcano’s crater exposed.
Thirty-three years after that eruption, Pat and I decided that it was the crater, or as close as we could get without extensive permits and preparations, that was our destination for the day’s hike. This meant Loowit Falls.
P: It was a park ranger that suggested Loowit Falls, which originates in Crater Glacier. Having hiked the trail herself, she was spot on with the timing, distance, and difficulty of the hike (plus a little extra for photos).
M: Leaving Windy Ridge, we embarked on a nearly ten-mile (round trip) hike through the blast zone. If you go, bring plenty of water, and remember to reapply your sunscreen often, as there is little in the way of shade. The path is pretty well-marked, but if you get confused (as happened to us repeatedly when we had to walk through dry stream beds) the park rangers have erected stone markers to guide you. Think 2010 Vancouver Olympics logo, and you have a rough idea of what some of the markers looked like.
M: While out and about, you may be fortunate enough to spot some mountain goats (see above). Unlike deer, who returned to the blast zone less than a week after the eruption, mountain goats have taken a little longer to warm back up to the place. However, this is mostly due to their need to eat butting up against the mountain’s lack of suitable vegetation.
P: We would have missed them entirely if not for stopping to talk with a Father/Son pair returning from Loowit Falls. It is easy to miss what you weren’t looking for.
M: Perhaps the greatest downside to this particular hike is that Loowit Falls is inaccessible from the trail. You can clearly see it from the trail’s end, but how close you get to it depends in large part on the zoom capabilities of your camera. While this is disappointing, it is also somewhat refreshing: The Mt. St. Helens National Volcanic Monument is meant to afford scientists the chance to watch nature recover without (major) interference from people. The fact that we’re allowed to hike through this living laboratory at all is pretty amazing, so being kept back from a waterfall in order to preserve it (and, one presumes, our own safety and well-being) is a small price to pay.
P: In reaching Loowit Falls, our visit to Mt. St. Helens has reached a turning point. As in, we have to turn around. Although the mountain is at our backs, we are faced with constant reminders that we are in a transient landscape. After 33 years, the Pacific Northwest is well on its way to reclaiming the environment. Willows grow dense along the banks where water is in plentiful supply, and together we wander through the remnants of May 18th, 1980.
M: Well, the sun is setting, and we still have a two hour drive ahead of us, dinner to make, and an air mattress to exhaustively fall upon before going to sleep. Maybe tomorrow as we drive home we’ll get in one last hike. The White Pass ski hill offers some spectacular views of Mt. Rainier. Wait…what’s that, Self? You’d rather not hike anymore? You’d rather drive to Yakima and get a burger and fries at Miners? Well, I guess we can do that instead.
P: Thus Part II concludes, having attained our goal of visiting Mt. St. Helens. What could be in store in Part III of our Mt. St. Helens guide? It’s starting to look like a Peter Jackson film. I’ll let Morgen have the last word since she was kind enough to help me get this post out there.
M: And so, good reader, I must bid you farewell. I hope I didn’t bore you with my rock-less tale. As a thank you for sticking with me, I’m going to write every geology-related word I can think of in 60 seconds: Metamorphic, plate tectonics, magma, lava, plagioclase, olivine, mineral, thin section, crystal size distribution, titanium, microprobe, rock hammer, iron banded formations, calcite, sediment, cooling, partition coefficients, and ROCKS! Best wishes!
The TV screen flickered to life as my family arranged themselves on the couch. On-screen, an aerial photo of Porto Rafti, a small seaside town east of Athens, Greece, marked the beginning of a two-week undergraduate geology department field trip to Cyprus. Figuring it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, I had diligently photographed everything notable. I began regaling the family with photos of layered gabbro, sheeted dikes, pillow basalts, slag, boudinage, gypsum, corals, umber, and more. But halfway through, my dad interrupted to ask, “So, were there any people on this field trip with you”?
It was a jarring question, and I realized my family was about to be bored out of their skulls. If the roles were reversed it would be like sitting through “And here were are standing in front of the Historical Building. And here we are inside The Building. Oh, and this is a great one of your father pointing out the millwork on the ceiling joists”. I had wanted to share with them my portraits of Cyprus and the fascinating geology of an ophiolite. They wanted smiling faces in front of stuff – and not just for scale. The story on screen was not the one they expected, and I wound up fast-forwarding through most of the geology-centric photos.
Common advice when speaking to the ‘public’ is to respect your audience, which would have served me well. Photos are a form of communication, and as in all forms it is important to keep the audience in mind so part of the image stays with them. Sometimes the form is academic, to fill the frame with brittle and ductile faults (right). We can annotate, measure, discuss, hypothesize, and argue about the rocks. These are the sorts of photos to put in conference talks, the simplest “true” photos of the Geologist as Photographer Wedge.
However, geology is a global science, and geologists have the opportunity to photograph some wonderfullocations (even in our own backyard, or in the lab). Extending beyond the utilitarian will naturally draw more interest to geological phenomena. There are multiple ways to improve image aesthetics, the simplest of which is to improve technical ability: composure, lighting, post-processing, etc. Tips and resources are everywhere, and a subset deal specifically with geologicalphotography. However, there’s a field resource I think is underused by almost every geologist photographer: Humans. And not just for scale.
People crowd outcrops, poke their head into frame at inopportune times, shy away from the camera, or maybe only ever show their backside. But at the same time, they are interacting with the environment, picking up rocks, and pointing out interesting features. Capturing these aspects can be difficult, but when done properly will make for more dynamic photos. You can still get the academic shots and record sweeping vistas. It’s something I’ve noticed more by following National Geographic’s new blog PROOF, which tells some behind the scenes stories from Nat Geo photographers.
An easy place to start is with your trip leader, as they typically gesture at everything and point out interesting features that everyone can see. Geologists get animated in the field, too, and are more animated in front of an outcrop.
Candid shots are rather more difficult, but it seems worth the effort when a broader audience will be interested in the photos. I think visiting zoos has helped me to practice for the field (not to draw too close a comparison…), because you get a feel for how patient and predictive you need to be to get a good photo. For example, one of my current favorites is of a relatively simple geologic feature, below:
Field work (and field trips) typically involve long hours, so it is not uncommon to be in the out for both the morning and evening golden hour. Above, our early morning expedition was rewarded with a clear sunrise on Lake Superior. For the geologists, the reduction band in the Jacobsville sandstone shows up clearly as the large ‘diagonal’ band at our feet. But there’s another layer of texture on top that draws other viewers in. The group was not scattered across the band for long, and I had to get into position and adjust my aperture to get a well-exposed and properly framed shot before the next shift.
People feature in more than half the photos (approaching 65%) from my last two field trips, up from less than a third in the Cyprus trip mentioned above. I’ll end with an encouragement for everyone to try and take more interesting photos of people in the field, and include one more photo below. The two halves show the same thing (ejecta strewn fields) on two planetary bodies, and it is the humans that tie the photos together.
This was originally intended to be part of Accretionary Wedge #56 (Geologist as Photographer) but wound up heading in a different direction and taking too long to be included.