Here's a quick recap of my cross-country journey, for those who are interested in such things.

I left Bozeman on Saturday morning, July 26, and drove east on the Interstate to Billings, then diverged southeast towards Little Bighorn. There, I verified a comment from a Lakota friend at MSU that with my new bushy mustache (see change in icon above), I look a wee big like George Armstrong Custer (Custer & his men were killed by Lakota and/or Cheyenne warriors). After a short picnic there, I kept driving across southeast Montana, and into northeast Wyoming. My goal for the night was Devils Tower, where I have positive memories from my "North by Northwesty" roadtrip two years ago. I got to Devils Tower in mid-afternoon, just in time for a wicked-looking thunderstorm to roll in. Pendulous looking mammatus clouds were hanging down, and the skies turned a darker grey than Lola. Rain and wind came through, and a big dead branch from one of the cottonwoods in the campground came crashing down, but not on anyone's car or tent. When the skies cleared up, I drove up to the visitor's center and took a walk around the tower. It's awesome: massive columns, some of them twenty feet across. The rock is a porphyritic phonolite, and it's quite pretty to look at: big feldspars (5mm) set in a fine-grained grey matrix. Lovely.

The next morning (Sunday), I headed for Red Bird, Wyoming (along Wyoming's eastern border), where Cruisin' the Fossil Freeway suggested there would be oodles of ammonites in concretions in the Pierre Shale, some a foot across. When I visited the Denver Museum of Nature and Science earlier this summer, Kirk Johnson reiterated to me that Red Bird was the place to go for ammonites. But once I got to where Red Bird should be (according to my road atlas), there were no highway signs indicating that the town existed. Worse, there were no outcrops, and no sign of public land. (And one thing that an amateur fossil collector does not want to do in Wyoming is trespass on a rancher's land.) So, no Red Bird ammonites for me. Oh well, no worries: I had collected ammonites from a tongue of the Pierre Shale (the Bearpaw Shale) earlier in the summer on BLM land near Glendive, Montana, and scored some good specimens there. I cruised south, stopping at the Sierra Trading Post outlet in Cheyenne, Wyoming, and dropping some cash on some new duds (STP is mainly a catalog business, famous ten years ago for their amazing deals, but the company seems to be shifting to more mainstream business nowadays, including multiple brick-and-mortar locations). Then another hour on the road brought me to Fort Collins, to the house of Larry Wiseman, where I stayed earlier in my trip. He and I got some pizza and 90-Shilling Ale (Odell's) and traded tales about our summers.


The next morning, we had coffee on Larry's front porch and watch the sun rise. I packed up and hit the road, heading for Kansas. In my rear-view mirror, the Rockies shrank and vanished from sight, a melancholy fade. Out into the plains... In mid-afternoon, I rolled into Oakley, Kansas, where I headed for the Fick Museum. The Fick Museum is interesting on multiple levels: it's got some stellar fossils from Kansas's Smoky Hill Chalk (member of the Niobrara Formation), like a Xiphactinus (massive fish) and a Tylosaurus skull (even more massive mosasaur). But it's also got some whacked-out art: the founder, Vi Fick, was into making art with local "art supplies," and so the walls show his portraits of eagles rendered entirely in rattlesnake tails (see image at right, from this online gallery), or his geometric arrangements of thousands of fossil shark teeth. There's even an oil painting Fick did of "God making the Cretaceous seas," which shows a bearded diety surrounded by flames (it kind of reminded me of Hindu art) making pleisiosaurs and pterosaurs. Not the usual way you see fossils displayed, or paleontology depicted!

At the Fick Museum, I met up with Ron Schott, doyen of the geoblogosphere, who graciously agreed to show me some cool Kansas geology. Ron and I headed south from Oakley towards Monument Rocks, an outcrop of the Smoky Hill Chalk. Ron was eager to gigapan the outcrop, and he set up the little device: essentially a robot that directs his camera to take high-resolution photos in a systematic grid. Pretty cool, really -- I guess I hadn't realized what a Gigapan really was before seeing it in action. I got to meet Ron's two little plastic elves that he uses for scale, and personally placed them on a ledge of chalk for the photograph. The grid of pictures eventually gets digitally stitched together by software, and available for sharing online.

From there, Ron and I headed back up to Oakley, stopping en route so I could collect a couple samples of the aquiferiferous Ogallala Formation, and then headed east, then south again, towards Castle Rock, another chalk outcrop. Here, we tested out my Prius' shocks on the dirt tracks, and checked out the largest cliff in Kansas (nearly getting blown off it by the intense wind), and then prospected for fossils below. I found some fish scales, and a shark tooth! Also inoceramid clam fragments, encrusted with oysters (apparently a common feature of the bottom of the Western Interior Seaway). No mosasaurs, though... Back to the road, and into Hays, Kansas, where Ron put me up in his guest room. We had dinner and a few beers at the Lb. Brewing Company, and thought about recording a PodClast, but then it slipped our minds. We discussed field trips, tenure, publications, and related topics. A good time! Thanks again to Ron for being such an excellent host.

The next two days (Tuesday and Wednesday) were essentially just driving. On Tuesday, I made it to Indianapolis, Indiana, and spent the night in a hotel there. On Wednesday, I turned north, and drove up into Michigan, and crossed into Ontario at Port Huron / Sarnia. Why go to Canada on my way from Montana to DC? Well, I'm teaching my Snowball Earth class this week at NOVA, and some of the rock samples I needed were stuck at Brock University in St. Catherines, Ontario. Usually they get shipped to educators who want to use them, but because of alleged border complications, I had to go get them myself; a five hundred mile detour! Fortunately, I have good friends who leave in Waterloo, Ontario, so I went and stayed with them. Mike and Natalie Leuty have been friends since 1996, and we had a good evening catching up. They have a sweet house in a suburb full of professorial types who teach at one of the several universities in town.

On Thursday morning, Mike and I had coffee on his front porch while his kids played in the yard, and then I packed up my kit and got rolling. I made it to Brock by 11am, and got the Snowball Suite. Because it's in a giant black case that looks suspiciously like a rifle case, I packed it under a pile of other gear in my car. At any rate, I crossed back into the United States without any static from customs officials, and rolled through Buffalo, New York (twice in one year!) I made my destination for the night Ithaca, New York, where I have a friend who's going to grad school at Cornell. I've never been to Ithaca, but I hear that it's "gorges" from many people. So I called my friend, Kathryn Werntz, and she was indeed around and accepting visitors, so I drove through the finger lakes region (five subparallel glacial troughs now filled with water), and found my way to her bungalow. Kathryn and I took a walk through Cornell's campus (two amazing gorges cutting through it), had some Indian food, and went to get dessert at Purity Ice Cream.

In the morning (Friday), I got up and we went to Gimme! Coffee for some caffeine. Thus fortified, I hit the road for my final day of driving. East to I-81, then south through Pennsylvania. At Harrisburg, I turned onto I-83, which took me to Baltimore, and from there it was a familiar zoom down the B-W Parkway into northeast DC. The dome of the Captiol was visible to my left, and then the comfortable sights of Florida Avenue and U Street. Up the hill, and a left on Harvard Street, and I was back in Adams-Morgan. Home! Finally!

Labels: appalachians, canada, chalk, colorado, field trips, glacial landforms, kansas, montana, national parks, new york, snowball earth, structure, travel, wyoming

Picking up where I left off yesterday, in describing Saturday's field trip out to western Maryland:

2:20pm: We exit Interstate 68 and go south on a dirt road for about ten or twelve miles. This road takes us through the Green Ridge State Forest, and I can tell the students are wary of it. I love a good dirt road, and this one even shows outcrops in the road surface -- resistant sedimentary layers tracing across its rutted, potholed surface. The sun comes out, and I roll down the window, relieved that the weather has finally broken.

3:00pm: We arrive at the C&O Canal's Paw Paw Tunnel, in Maryland just north of the Potomac River and the town of Paw Paw, West Virginia. ("Paw paw" is a native tree in the custard apple family with a lovely fruit also called a paw paw. They're delicious, if you can find one the raccoons haven't already claimed.) Paw Paw is the site of the most pronounced entrenched meanders seen along the length of the Potomac River. These exaggerated loops suggest an old age river system, but they are "locked" at the bottom of deep canyons, which suggests a young river system. The usual interpretation is that the Potomac is a rejuvenated river system: it was "old age," equilibrated to base level and meandering actively, but then base level dropped and it incised to a deeper level, maintaining the meandering shape even though the meanders no longer actively squiggle from side to side.

3:10pm: At the upstream end of the tunnel, we discuss the Brallier Shale (Devonian), and note the angle of the bedding here, which is tipped into the Canal's valley: ideal for landslides. When C&O Canal engineers came to the Paw Paw Bends, they faced a tough choice: construct the canal to parallel the river around its multiple entrenched meanders, or carve a tunnel through a mountain made of this stuff. They opted for the tunnel, saving 6.5 miles of Canal length, but the digging of the tunnel took 14 years!



Because the weather is good, we decide to hike over the mountain first and then walk through the tunnel on the return trip. The hike gives us views of some of the meanders' loopy shapes:



We don't see a whole lot else on the hike, but it feels good to stretch the legs.

4:oopm: We reach the Tunnel Hollow, a long linear valley on the downstream side of the tunnel. Signs of the morning's torrential rains are everywhere in the form of increased runoff. For instance, we see a large stream emerging from the base of a talus slope, flowing across the path and into the canal:



Heading up the Tunnel Hollow, we are greeted with the sight of numerous waterfalls arcing down into the valley:





Here, the layers of the Brallier Formation dip into the Tunnel Hollow, again presenting the potential for slip between the layers, and suddenly big slabs of rock dropping down into the valley. We note the "pins" holding these unstable sheets of rock in place:



4:20pm: My favorite thing about the Tunnel Hollow is the world class exposures of slickensides there. During Alleghenian mountain-building, these sheets of shale slid over one another, as a deck of cards will buckle when squeezed. Sliding between the layers ground grooves into the rock face, and also deposited mineral fibers alligned in the direction of sliding.





4:40pm: Lastly, we got to the downstream end of the Paw Paw Tunnel itself, where multiple waterfalls were cascading down onto the towpath. A fine mist fills the air, and catches the beams of sunlight. There's a nice anticline exposed just above the tunnel archway, and usually I have students climb up the stairs (on the left) to check it out up close. However, today a waterfall was landing on the stairs!







Four of us decided to go for it anyhow, just for the thrill of passing through a waterfall. Several (smarter) students who chose to stay down below pulled out their video cameras and recorded parts of our folly. Here's one showing the climb: (Unfortunately it's both silent and taken "sideways" and I'm not video-savvy enough to know how to fix it in either regard.)



Here's another video of the four of us (Nicole, Jan, Dave, and me) up on top:



4:35pm: Time to enter the tunnel. Flashlights come out, and we begin to walk through the Paw Paw Tunnel. It's a remarkable feat of engineering. It's 3/5 of a mile long, and pitch black. We walk along the towpath, where mules once pulled barges up and down the C&O Canal. It's nice and cool in there, like a cave.

5:10pm: We load up in the vans and depart the Paw Paw Tunnel. It takes a full two hours to drive back to Annandale, so we get rolling. We cross West Virginia, and then work our way east across Virginia. Several students nod off, while others discuss geology and travel along the way.

7:12pm: We return to the Annandale campus. Adios, estudiantes! The NSF crowd (Michelle and Nicole) and I retire to the Auld Shebeen in Fairfax for some Boddington's and Gaelic tunes. It's been a long day; we've covered a lot of ground and seen some cool stuff. Time for a pint!

As with yesterday's post, all photos are by Nicole LaDue, NSF. Thanks, Nicole!
Videos are courtesy of Amy Bertsch and Dean Kauffmann.

Labels: field trips, maryland, stratigraphy, structure, teaching, valley and ridge

Saturday morning, 6am: I roll out of bed and check the weather. Storms forecast for Hancock, Maryland, where I'm due to be leading a field trip that day. Hmmm. But based on the radar animation, it looks like they're going to hit hard from 10-11am or so, and then ease off for a bit before hitting hard again later in the day.

6:15am: Making coffee, with Lola the cat underfoot. I check the weather again, and convince myself that the timing of the rain will work for our trip's timetable. I decide to go for it.

7:00am: I call Dale Shelton (of the Maryland Geologic Survey) at home and confirm that it's okay if we go out on the outcrop if it's merely wet, but we can't go out if it's actively raining.

7:15am: I e-mail the students, confirming that the trip is a 'go.'

8:15am: "Bye, Lola!" I leave DC and drive out to Annandale. Once on campus, I gather up a few items (first aid kit, whiteboard, topographic maps), and then go out to the parking lot where students are gathering.

9:00am: We depart campus and head northwest.

9:45am: We leave the Piedmont and cross into the Blue Ridge province.

10:03am: We leave the Blue Ridge province and cross into the Valley and Ridge province (though there are a number of Marylanders who persist in calling it the "Ridge and Valley").

10:15am: The rain hits, hard. Windshield wipers on. Behind the wheel, I grimace. Hope it passes...

10:56am: We pull in to the Sideling Hill Visitor Center. Other cars containing other students are there already. We meet up and head indoors.

Sideling Hill is a massive roadcut in western Maryland. If you've ever seen it, you'd remember it. I won't go into all the geological details here, because (due to the rain) we didn't see them all. But if you're interested, you can read in more detail about Sideling Hill on my website. Long story short: We've got some early Mississippian strata here, derived from the weathering of the Acadian highlands to the east, deposited at the edge of the Kaskaskia epeiric sea. Then they were folded up during Alleghenian mountain-building.

12:00pm: After reviewing some of the salient details inside the Visitors Center where it was warm and dry, we ventured out into the rain and wind. Fortunately, a pedestrian walkway over the highway gave us a decent vantage:





Even from this limited vantage, we are able to observe and interpret some interesting features. For instance, check out the differential weathering of the shale vs. sandstone layers here on the eastern side of the outcrop. We likened this to other examples of differential weathering, like at Monument Valley, Arizona.



We also got a good view of what an oxbow lake looks like when viewed in cross-section. Note how this paleo-channel cuts into the layers beneath it, and is filled with a plug of dark shale, indicating low-energy, low-oxygen conditions.



2:00pm: After giving up on our chances to get out on the first berm of the outcrop, we depart the Sideling Hill Visitor Center, but pull over a short distance down the road to examine the diamictite on the western side of the roadcut. In drizzle, and shouting over the traffic, we discuss the multiple origins of diamictites:



2:10pm: On the road again, headed for our second destination, the Paw Paw Bends...

(More on that tomorrow)

All photos by Nicole LaDue, NSF. Thanks, Nicole!

Labels: field trips, maryland, stratigraphy, structure, valley and ridge

Cleaning up my hard drive today, before switching over to the laptop for my summer travels. Thought I would share a few annotated photos from my "Geology of Glacier National Park and surrounding areas" class that I took last summer.

Here's Chief Mountain:


On the trail to Firebrand Pass, here's the contact between the Altyn Formation (lowest of the Belt Supergroup exposed at Glacier) and the overlying Appekunny Formation:


The Purcell Sill is a readily recognizable feature high on the glacially-carved walls of Glacier National Park. This shot is from the trail on the way up to Grinnell Glacier:


Here's a shot from Sun River Canyon, showing one of the many imbricate thrust faults there, with some glacial till thrown in as a bonus feature:


Just outside of Sun River Canyon, we saw some nice recumbent drag folds on some thrust faults in the Cretaceous rocks:


This one was from early in the trip, on the road from Helena up north towards Glacier. Specifically, we stopped in Little Prickly Pear Canyon, near Wolf Creek, and saw these chevron folds in the Cretaceous rocks there:


Along those same lines (folded Cretaceous strata), here's a gorgeous fold just outside the park's boundary, on the road leading north from Two Medicine towards Many Glacier:


No annotations on this one, but I wanted to share it anyhow: a blind thrust / drag fold complex, in the Grinnell Formation (exposed on the trail up to Grinnell Glacier):


Lastly, some snow photos. I took this shot on my way up the trail to Grinnell Glacier, because the holes in the snow reminded me of the scary mask face from the Scream movies. But then on the way down, I realized I had the opportunity to document how much snowmelt occurs in six hours of Glacier NP summer weather. Hence, the bottom "after" shot:


That's it for today... Enjoy!

Labels: field trips, montana, msse, plutons, proterozoic, sediment, structure

A couple days ago, I showed a photo of plumose structure here, a feature that sometimes forms when rocks fracture (i.e. a joint is formed). I invoked the image below to show the relationship between the plumose structures and the concentric "ribs" that sometimes show up on a joint (here labeled as "arrest lines"). The point was to show how they were mututally perpendicular.

But the diagram shows something else, too: that the delicate topography of the plumes becomes more exaggerated away from the main surface of the joint, and they grow into twisted "hackles" along the edge of the joint. Joints have ruffled edges! These hackle fringes can also be spotted on many rock surfaces, if you're looking for them.

Here's a photo I took a couple of weeks ago, in the Silurian Needmore Formation (exposed in the Massanutten Synclinorium between Waterlick, VA and Seven Fountains, VA). It shows a series of hackle fringes parallel to one another, showing the growth of the fracture surface over time.

Here it is again, with the Photoshop "contrast" dial turned up to 11:

The high-contrast view helps bring the hackles into high-relief, and also illuminates the subtle plumose structure. Looks like this surface formed from the top, down. As I read it, this joint started on the right side of the image and propagated leftwards as time went by.

(The hematite nodule at left is a bonus feature.)

Labels: joints, structure

In December of 2005, I went out to The Sea Ranch, California, for Christmas. (The Sea Ranch is one of those towns that is officially called "The" something, kinda like The Plains, Virginia. Sorta weird, but there it is.) I want to share an experience I had there, because it gave me an important perspective on my own 'native' geology back in the mid-Atlantic region. It was a significant moment of understanding for me. Let me walk you through it...

The following collection of images are what I saw walking a mere 1 mile up and down the coast from the house where we were staying. I hope you will be struck by the incredible diversity of rock types seen here (as I was):

Conglomerate:




Siltstone and shale interbedded (vertical bedding):


Siltstone and shale interbedded (anticline):


Siltstone and shale interbedded (syncline):


Mudchip conglomerate (mud chips are "rip-up" clasts due to scouring of a muddy location by a sudden intense current, which carries much larger particles like the sand that now surrounds the darker, finer-grained mud chips):


Quartz-rich sandstone:


Graywacke (showing mouthwateringly beautiful graded bedding):


A zoomed-out shot of that graded bed:


Various sedimentary layers (sandstone, silstones, shale partings):


And a close-up of a few small faults that cut through them:


And it's not just sedimentary rocks. Here's some greenstone (metamorphosed basalt). Note the cluster of amygdules (infilled vesicles) in the center:


The greenstone is green due to a lot of chlorite, but it also shows some nice epidote:




Looking north up the coast from our rental house, you could see greenstone and conglomerate intermingled on the 10m-scale:


This is in the small cove directly in front of our rental. There are three different rock units seen here (greenstone, conglomerate, clayey sand), all indicating different things. Note the big clast of greenstone "hovering" in the clayey sand part:




So after taking a walk along the lovely coast there, and seeing all this stuff, I thought "Wow."

The tremendous diversity of rock types along this section of the Sonoma County coast was due to tectonic shuffling of rock types at a subduction zone. In the Mesozoic, this part of California was at a trench where the Farallon Plate was being subducted to the east underneath North America. Melting at depth produced magma, which resulted in the Sierra Nevada continental volcanic arc (excellently reviewed by Geotripper in his "Under the Volcano" series examining the Sierras). But at the trench itself, all the sediments at the edge of North America were being compressed and squeezed and mixed up with the sediments being scraped off the subducted oceanic slab. Some knobs and bumps of basalt even got scraped off the Farallon Plate and added into this jumbled mess. Altogether, this big pile of debris from the convergent boundary is referred to as an accretionary wedge. "Accretionary" because it got accreted, or added, onto the western edge of North America. "Wedge" because that's its overall shape in cross-section.

When subduction ceased (due to the subduction of the East Pacific Rise), the Farallon Plate was gone at this latitude, and the Pacific Plate and the North American Plate were now in direct contact for the first time. As time went by, the accretionary wedge reacted to now longer being dragged downward, and it began to isostatically rebound. It bobbed upward, and brought its 'melange' (French for mixture) to the surface. The uplifted accretionary wedge is the California Coast Ranges, a fantastic place for varied geology mainly because of the tectonic "shuffling" that happened here during the Mesozoic.

So, I mentioned that seeing all this diversity in so short a hike really impressed me. But the insight it gave me is that the same thing happened on the east coast. Where I live and work, in DC and Virginia, an accretionary wedge developed during the early Paleozoic, just like in California, with the exception that ours got subsequently squeezed and metamorphosed in a series of mountain-building events. It's a bit more difficult to recognize, partially due to that metamorphism and partially due to all the @#$%ing vegetation obscuring the underlying bedrock. But it's there: we have metagraywacke, with relict graded beds, metabasalt, quartzite, schist ("meta-shale") and metaconglomerate: it's everything I saw in California with a metamorphic overprinting!

"Wow," I thought again.

Here's some shots of DC-area rocks that are analogues for the ones I've already showed you in California:

Metamorphosed mud-chip conglomerate (near Chain Bridge, DC):


Metamorphosed quartz-rich sandstone (the Sugarloaf Mountain quartzite, MD):




Metagraywacke showing metamorphic chlorite, garnet, and pyrite (both from DC):




Graded bed preserved in metagraywacke (Billy Goat Trail, MD):


Metabasalt (amphibolite, again from the Billy Goat Trail, MD):


Metaconglomerate (Klingle Road, DC):




The experience comparing the two coasts greatly enriched my understanding of tectonics and subduction, and gave me perspective on DC's geologic history. Two different accretionary wedges, two coasts, two eras... but one underlying process. That's what really hit home. Geology repeats itself. It gave me a renewed interest in my local geology. Everyone always hears about what great geology California has (and it does), but doggone it, DC pulled that same trick millions of years earlier, and experienced a series of orogenies immediately afterwards (which California can't claim!).

If it's true that "the best geologist is the one who has seen the most geology," then I became a better geologist that day on the Sonoma coast.

PS - I think it's funny to note that I didn't put a sense of scale in any of the California pictures, but that most of the DC area pictures do have one. I think that says something about my development as a geologist and educator too...

Labels: basalt, plate tectonics, primary structures, sediment, structure

Here's a photo one of my Audubon students (Albert) took this past Saturday on the Berma Road, in C&O Canal National Historical Park. The lighting was just right, so that when we passed by this outcrop of metagraywacke, we saw an illuminated example of plumose structure:

Plumose structure is something that forms when rock breaks. The fracture starts at one point, and then grows, propagating thorough the rock and leaving behind a telling signature of its growth. In this case, the fracture (also known as a joint) started at point A and propagated through the rock to point B (central 'shaft'), expanding laterally (feathery 'plumes') at the same time.

Sometimes, concentric 'ribs' form, perpendicular to all these feathery plumes, showing the actual leading edge of the growing fracture surface. An example most people are probably familiar with is the "clamshell" shape of a classic conchoidal fracture. Check out this image to see how the two relate to one another.

When we saw this lovely example, I pointed out to the students that if we had been there fifteen minutes earlier or later, this subtle topography would either have been obscured totally in shadow, or washed out in full light. It was only because the light was at juuuuuust the right angle relative to these mm-scale variations that we noticed it.

Labels: joints, structure

Last week, I mentioned some cool conglomerates I saw when NOVA adjunct instructor Chris Khourey and I did some field scouting. The main purpose of that trip was not to focus on the Culpeper Basin's boundary conglomerates, however, but the "Great Valley" of Virginia's Valley and Ridge province. The "Great Valley" is usually called the Shenandoah Valley in Virginia, because the Shenandoah River flows north through it. (Topographically, it continues north into Maryland, but the Shenandoah River isn't found there.) Sitting in the middle of the valley is a mountain range, Massanutten Mountain. And in the middle of Massanutten, there is another valley, the Fort Valley. As you can see below, Massanutten is a fence-like ridge separating the higher Fort Valley from the lower Shenandoah Valley:

The map view up above (using Google Maps' super-cool new terrain feature) and this cross-section also show the difference in landscape texture (and geologic cause) of the Blue Ridge province in the SE corner of the images.

In discussing the geology of the area, I'm going to mix my pictures from Thursday's scouting expedition with photos from Saturday's actual field trip with my Audubon class.

Let's start at the beginning. The first stop was in the Conococheague Formation, a late Cambrian limestone. Our field trip stopped at a nice exposure near Mulberry Run, west of Strasburg, VA. Here's the crew looking close at the outcrop, and trying out their geo-interpretive field skills for the first time:

Albert tests the outcrop with some dilute hydrochloric acid. It fizzes!

Soon, we spot the first of several stromatolites:

There are also some nice spherical grains of calcite called ooids (or ooliths). These form in wave-influenced carbonate banks today, like the Bahamas.

Interpretation of this environment then? Looks like a nice passive margin, far from any major terrigenous inputs (i.e. mud or sand). Warm tropical temperatures leading to the chemical precipitation of lime mud from seawater.

What comes next? On to stop #2, the Tumbling Run section* south of Strasburg, we see a nice long exposure of the New Market, Lincolnshire, and Edinburg Formations, a series of Ordovician limestones, all dipping nicely towards the axis of the synclinorium. (Last semester, one of my Honors students looked at silicified trilobites in the Edinburg Formation.) As you walk downhill (and up-section), you see a change in the limestones. They get darker in color, and they start splitting into thin sheets along clay-rich layers. Uh-oh, we're getting an increasing clastic influence on these sedimentary rocks. They no longer record pristine, Bahamas-type environments. Now the limestone is mixing with shale. Where is all that mud coming from? A hint may be found in several bentonite layers, weathered volcanic ash deposits. There's some volcanoes getting closer to the area, it looks like.

In the late Ordovician, the east coast of North America experienced the first of three episodes of Appalchian mountain-building. Geologists infer that the Taconian Orogeny was caused by the collision of a volcanic island arc (like modern day Indonesia) with the east coast. The Tumbling Run section shows well the increasing clastic influence of the growing Taconian Mountains to the east.

It's also good for some small but interesting tectonic structures. Check out this conjugate pair of en echelon tension gash arrays:

The black nodules you see along bedding in the above image are flint nodules, very characteristic of the Lincolnshire Formation. If you get close to them, you'll find that they exhibit different mechanical properties than the limestone that surrounds them. They are more likely to break (brittle behavior) than flow (ductile behavior):

But let's get back to the stratigraphy, shall we? (It just doesn't do to get distracted by these minor structures!) Our next stop was to look at the Oranda Formation (calcareous shale), indicating heavy clastic influence (but still a bit of carbonate). Then, after a lovely lunch at the Strasburg Emporium, we headed off to the Buzzard Rock Trail, to look at the Martinsburg Formation. The Martinsburg is a nice thick batch of fine sand and mud interpreted as turbidite deposits. Various pieces of the Bouma sequence can be seen throughout the formation, including graded beds, ripple marks, and cross-bedding. This picture conveys these alternating lithologies, representing fluctuating current strength as turbidity currents periodically brought coarser sediment into the deep (low-oxygen, as indicated by the dark color) basin.

Now, keep in mind that all these sedimentary layers later got folded during the final phase of Appalachian mountain-building, the Alleghenian ("Alleghany") Orogeny. At that same time of intense deformation, some of these mud layers began to convert to slate. The outcrop on the Buzzard Rock Trail shows this pretty well, in spite of being covered by lichen, algae, moss, and other horrible rock-obscuring growths:

The sandy layers outcrop as stiff, blocky strata. But look to the right of the quarter: in the muddy layers, a penetrative cleavage has developed, subperpendicular to the compressive stress. Here, let me draw for you what I saw at this outcrop:

The clay minerals in the mud are more susceptible to being alligned by tectonic forces than the grains of sand in the coarser layers. So the shaley intervals exhibit a more pronounced cleavage than do the sandy intervals.

But again, I'm getting distracted by the tectonic overprinting! This trip is supposed to be about stratigraphy, pure and simple. Doggone it! Okay, moral of the Martinsburg: no more carbonate by the late Ordovician. Instead, this sedimentary basin is getting filled with clastic debris shed off the Taconian Mountains** to the east.

Next layer up is the Massanutten Formation: mainly quartz sandstone, but also some quartz pebble conglomerate. We see it by entering the "basket" via a water gap near Waterlick, VA. Driving south (uphill) along Passage Creek, we were soon surrounded by looming cliffs of quartzite. It represents fluvial and beach facies as the depositional basin was filled to the brim. Here's a boulder of the conglomeratic portion:

Here's some nice cross-beds in the sandy portion exposed near Blue Hole, about 4 miles south of Waterlick, VA:

Other Massanutten Formation features include some fossils. Here's some poorly-preserved brachiopod external molds:

And here's some Arthophycus horizontal trace fossils, probably made by polycheate worms:

Okay, I can't resist this tectonic structure: an awesome anticline exposed along the Veatch Gap Trail (eastern part of the synclinorium, where a small anticline in the Massanutten Formation is superimposed on the larger synclinal pattern):

Beyond the Massanutten Formation, we are in the Fort Valley proper, inside the "canoe" shape of the Massanutten Mountain ridge system. Next layer up is some upper Silurian / lower Devonian carbonates, representing a return to passive margin sedimentation after the end of the Taconian Orogeny and the erosional beveling of those ancient mountains. Unfortunately, there are no good places to stop on the narrow Fort Valley Road, so I don't have a picture of them to share. Trust me, though: they're there.

The next good stops are of Devonian shales. There's some nice ones exposed across the road from Elizabeth Furnace. More mud? From whence does it come? We interpret this again as the onset of an orogeny, in this case the Devonian-aged Acadian Orogeny, which dumped a big thick wedge of sediment into the Appalachian Basin. Here's a shot of the Needmore Formation, one of these shales with distinctive trace fossils highlighted by iron oxide:

The overlying Mahantango Formation (Devonian) is a siltstone that bears a decent number of body fossils, like these brachiopods:

Here's something that may be the back of a trilobite (if I'm not imagining the lobe to the left of the central line of knobs), or maybe a crinoid (if the "central" line is all there is):

Here's what appears to be the (vertically-oriented) trace fossil Daedalus, which I learned for the first time this spring in Silurian rocks near Buffalo, New York:

Finally, at the top of the stack, near Seven Fountains, there are exposures of more bentonite, in this case the Tioga Bentontite, a major stratigraphic marker bed throughout the Appalachians. Here's a shot of the bentonite exposure on the Fort Valley Road near Seven Fountains:

Here's Chris looking at the outcrop:

To summarize the Fort Valley portion of the story: after the Taconian Orogeny ends, we get a brief period of tectonic calm and passive margin sedimentation (carbonate), and then a return to orogenically-induced clastic sedimentation (augmented with volcanic eruptions). In the sedimentary sequence of the Massanutten Synclinorium, this records the onset of the Acadian Orogeny. The actual deformation of all these sedimentary horizons into a synclinorium shape was accomplished by the Alleghenian Orogeny: the much bigger mountian-building episode triggered with Africa and North America collided in the latest Paleozoic.

Hope you enjoyed joining us on this trip. Virginia's got some great geology, eh?

* For the Tumbling Run section, I highly recommend this excellent field guide:

Fichter, Lynn S., and Diecchio, Richard J., 1986, "The Taconic sequence in the northern Shenandoah Valley, Virginia." In: Geological Society of American Centennial Field Guide - Southeastern Section, p.73-78.

** Note I don't say "Taconic." The Taconic Mountains are a modern topographic feature in New York. They exhibit Taconian rocks well, and the orogeny is named for them, but the Ordovician Taconian Mountains would have been much bigger and more areally extensive.

Labels: fossils, primary structures, sediment, stratigraphy, structure, teaching, valley and ridge

Ahhhh.... the semester's just about over. Yesterday, I gave my last lecture and delivered two lab practical exams, and now all that's left to do is give the final exams on Tuesday. Not a moment too soon! It's been a very busy time over the past couple of months. What with my regular teaching duties, my Audubon class, my online MSSE class, GSW, various talks (like Wednesday's "Geology along the C&O Canal" at NSF), supervising homeschoolers visiting the NOVA chemistry lab, grant finagling, writing projects, and just life, I'm dog tired. I'm seriously ready for a nice break.

This ought to mean I'll have more time for posting on this blog, and hopefully that the posts will be richer and more thoughtfully composed.

Anyhow, let's share some pictures today. These are photos I took last summer on Dave Lageson's "Geology of Glacier National Park and Surrounding Areas" course at Montana State University - Bozeman. Dave is a great field trip leader, and I'm looking forward to another of his courses this summer: "Northern Rocky Mountain Geology."

For the Glacier course, we loaded up the vans in Bozeman and drove northwest through Helena and up to Sun River Canyon, one of the best areas in the world to look at multiple imbricated thrust sheets. Dave's been taking students here for a long time, and in fact "wrote the book" on it as a field trip location. In the photo below, the prominent cliff is Paleozoic limestone. The gently-sloping hill in the foreground, however, is Cretaceous shale. As is often the case, tectonics trumps superposition. Compressional tectonic forces have shoved the older rocks up on top of the younger rocks. (An analogous situation in the east is the Blue Ridge's Grenvillian rocks thrust up and to the west over Cambrian and Ordovician carbonates of the Shenandoah Valley.)


Here's a map showing how the Canyon trends east-west across the north-south strike of these mutliple thrust sheets:

Next up: Waterton Lakes Park, Alberta. We slipped over the border and spent an evening drinking beer in the southernmost of the Canadian Rockies. ...Purty.


Here's us looking at the next day's field stops.


Still life with fun stuff:


The next day, crossing back into the U.S., we stopped to get a good look at Chief Mountain, another scene of thrusting older rocks on top of younger rocks. Again, the lower unit is Cretaceous, but this time the upper rocks are older, much older. They're Mesoproterozoic rocks of the Belt Supergroup, thrust eastward along the Lewis Thrust, which underlies the base of this mountain. Chief Mountain is an erosional remnant of the Lewis Thrust sheet: that is to say, erosion has cut into the thrust sheet and left behind this one isolated outpost of what was once a continuous sheet of allochthonous rock. (It's a klippe!) The thrust sheet picks up again in the mountains of Glacier National Park.


Next day: a hike up to Grinnell Glacier, a classic glacier in a park named for classic glaciers. Like all of Glacier's glaciers, however, Grinnell is melting. It's receded quite a lot, as repeat photography shows:


Here's a view looking down the Grinnell Valley at a string of pater noster lakes blue with "glacial flour."


Here's what's left of Grinnell Glacier:


Where the glacier once stood, there's now a new lake. Several of my classmates decided that they would go for a dip. Note: all these guys are from Montana...


As for myself, I stayed out of the water, amusing myself with the amazing sedimentary structures displayed by the Belt rocks. Here's an outcrop of the Grinnell Formation, showing amazing Mesoproterozoic mudcracks. (As David Byrne said, "Same as it ever was, same as it ever was...")


Glacier's Belt Supergroup rocks are reknowned for their stromatolites, fossilized cyanobacterial mats. Here, a stromatolitic layer in the Helena Formation was exposed in cross-section by glacial erosion. Penny for scale (atop middle stromatolite).


And here's another view of the same stromatolitic layer, exposed in map-view section (a horizontal slice, as opposed to the vertical outcrop above). Enthusiastic geologist for scale, imagining doing the backstroke through the Proterozoic Belt Sea.


And... that's it for today. I'm off to the Blue Ridge this weekend, so I won't be posting again until Monday or so. But hopefully I'll have some cool new images from Virginia's oldest rocks to share at that time. Be good.

Labels: canada, montana, msse, primary structures, proterozoic, structure

I've already introduced you to two of my Honors students' field projects. Now for the last of the three -- Jason's project on the strained metaconglomerate of Klingle Road. Klingle Road is a "road" in D.C. that was damaged by a storm some years back, and never repaired. Some people have started using it as a park, while others clamor for the road to be fixed. Geologically, it's interesting because it exposes a rock unlike any other nearby: a distinctly foliated metaconglomerate. Because I am so clever, I call it the Klingle Road Metaconglomerate. It's part of the "Laurel Formation," which is one of many flavors of metagraywacke / accretionary wedge complex that make up the bulk of the Piedmont in this area. Here's some of the squished clasts that Jason is interested in:

We know these rocks got heated up a fair bit. How do we know this? Well, they flowed out into elongated shapes all oriented in the same direction for one (see the additional photos here). The outcrop is peppered with clusters of little plus-shaped protuberances: they are clusters of sericite (cryptocrystalline muscovite) in the shape of staurolite porphyroblasts. Staurolite is a reasonably high grade metamorphic mineral, and when we see the three-dimensional shape of staurolite, but it's been turned into relatively-low-grade sericite, it's an indication of "retrograde metamorphism." Basically, after hitting the peak of its particular metamorphic conditions (high temperature and pressure, growing staurolite), the rock is readjusting to lower temperatures and pressures, and those staurolite crystals are reacting to a mineral that's more stable at those lower temperatures and pressures: sericite.

But anyhow -- back to the metaconglomerate. It's made of clasts, and those clasts have been stretched. The question is: how much have they been stretched. Sometimes when strain estimates are made, we assume an initial sphere shape, and then measure the lengths of the various axes of the resulting ellipsoidal shape (the "strain ellipsoid"). But is the assumption of initial sphericity valid? Jason is testing this issue by measuring the axes of cobbles and pebbles from the metaconglomerate as well as loose cobbles and pebbles found in nearby Rock Creek. We want to get a sense of how ellipsoidal cobbles are before they experience orogenic shortening/stretching. Here's a shot of Jason, Spencer, and Victoria measuring cobble axis lengths on a gravel bar near the National Zoo:

And a shot of the crew close-up:

And, just for fun, here's one more shot from Victoria's field area on Broad Branch. We hiked up to the contact with the Kensington Tonalite (a ~464 Ma felsic intrusive rock -- essentially a granite) and found a series of small waterfalls over this resistant rock unit. In the sequence of cascades were a series of deep pools. I submerged myself in one of them:

Labels: appalachians, dc, field trips, nova, piedmont, sediment, structure, teaching

Here's a view in the creek bed of Spencer and Victoria looking for kink band outcrops. (Ignore the date stamp in the lower right: it is not accurate.)

A nice kink band. Width of photograph is ~25 cm.

Victoria takes the strike of the metagraywacke's foliation:

Here's a Z-fold in the foliation -- more of a kink "knot" than a kink band. The kinematic sense of motion in this photo is top-to-the-right (right-lateral):

Here, Jason and Spencer measure the orientation of a kink band:

A nice little outcrop of crenulation cleavage, showing porphyroblasts of chlorite (green/blue) and garnet (red/brown). The pencil is parallel to crenulation "wrinkles".

Next time, we'll take a look at the projects that Spencer and Jason are working on.

Labels: field trips, geology, nova, sediment, structure, teaching

This past week, I stayed in Arlington, Virginia. My dad and stepmom were in London, and I was looking after my youngest siblings (both teenagers) by staying at dad's house and serving as the Responsible Adult. It's the same house I grew up in, and it has a lot of nice memories associated with it. At the end of the street, there's a little trail which leads off into the woods and downhill towards the Potomac River along a little creek called Windy Run. ("Windy" as in the weather, not as in sinuous, though it is that, too.) At the bottom, Windy Run launches off a waterfall and tumbles down into the Potomac Gorge. On Saturday morning, I decided to go take a hike down to Windy Run and reacquaint myself with the landscape and its rocks. Here's the view from the top of the waterfall looking across the river into D.C.


Here's a view of the waterfall from the side. The big ice-rimed log at the base is about a foot and a half in diameter, to give a sense of scale:

On the way down the trail, there lies a big boulder of quartzite. This is my first rock. By that, I mean that this specific boulder is the first time I learned to put a name to a chunk of the Earth: my dad taught me that it was quartz, and I committed the name to memory. Today I would note that it's milky quartz, indicating hydrothermal deposition. (Tiny inclusions of water in the crystal lattice scatter incoming light and make it appear white.) Its upper surface is covered in black lichen. Pondering it anew on Saturday, I wondered if learning the name of this boulder in the late 1970s was the first step leading to me towards my ultimate career as a geologist. Lens cap is 5 cm in diameter.


My "first rock" lies at the base of a hill, below a linear trail of other quartz boulders. This array likely represents a subterranean vein of hydrothermal quartz, a common feature in the Virginia Piedmont.


For instance, here's a big vein of hydrothermal quartz (center) cutting across the metagraywacke host rocks at the top of the Windy Run waterfall. It's about a foot wide, and emplaced at a ~20 degree angle to the regional foliation (which strikes ~N25E). The quartz vein is oriented approximately vertically, just east of true north.


Here's some more vein quartz in the metagraywacke matrix. Foliation runs approximately left-right across this image. Note how there are large bodies of milky quartz arrayed semi-parallel to foliation: these are probably best interpreted as boudins: the results when a tabular vein of quartz was broken into chunks, and these chunks were smeared out along along the foliation during mountain-building. Boudinage (the process of producing boudins) is a somewhat brittle behavior (breaking) and somewhat ductile (smearing): under the proper combination of high temperature and directed pressure, quartz can act like pizza dough. It's capable of being molded, but also capable of separating into coherent pieces. We call these "boudins" because they resemble sausages strung out in a row ("boudin" is French for sausage). Here, only one boudin is shown, but click here for some other examples. The boudin is about 3 cm in thickness, to give a sense of scale.

There are also smaller quartz-imbued veins (white arrows, extended with dashed lines) in this rock, cutting across foliation at nearly right angles. Note how the "infusion" of quartz along these thin fractures makes them more resistant to weathering (they stand up in high relief, as seen in the lower left). This set of small quartz veins was likely emplaced at the same time the rock was being squeezed during mountain building, for reasons I explain in the next photograph.

So here's my stress interpretation of this rock. The big blue arrows represent the principal stress direction. To simplify, you could think of one blue arrow as representing Africa and the other as North America, pushing on these poor oceanic sediments caught in the middle. The yellow arrows represent extension. As the rock gets compressed in from "top" to "bottom," it gets squished outwards left to right. This deforms pre-existing quartz veins by rotating them into parallelism with foliation, and also potentially boudinaging them into chunks like the big one. The green ellipse demonstrates this overall process. One way to accommodate the rock's stretching in the yellow-arrow direction is by opening up small fractures (like the ones on the left) which get infilled with quartz.


On my walk, I saw a couple of exposures of hydrothermal quartz that strained the definition: that is, they weren't all quartz. Instead, parts of them (~5%) appeared to be granite pegmatite. In this shot, you can see several large crystals of potassium feldspar set in the quartz. Large flakes of muscovite were also semi-common. Lens cap is 5 cm in diameter.


Here's another shot of the same phenomenon seen elsewhere on the trail: large crystals of potassium feldspar and muscovite set in the "quartz vein." At what point do we stop calling these quartz veins and start calling them pegmatite dikes? Is a single crystal of non-quartz enough to change our perception of the fluid from hot mineral-rich water to wet magma? Like many things in geology, these features indicate that phenomena like dikes and veins are on a spectrum between end-members. In other words, there are shades of grey in how these things form (in addition to how we interpret them). By the way, the greenish hue is algae, not epidote. Lens cap is 5 cm in diameter.


Granite dikes (including pegmatitic ones) are reasonably common in the Virginia Piedmont. Here, as a Windy Run example, is a small granite dike I saw in a boulder on my Saturday walk. Lens cap is 5 cm in diameter.


Tomorrow, I'll explore a rockslide I saw on Windy Run, as well as the nature of the metagreywacke itself. Stay tuned, rockhounds...

Labels: geology, granite, structure, virginia

We've had a cold week in the mid-Atlantic this week, and increasingly my thoughts turn to warmer conditions and the summer. Last year, this year, and next year, I'm scheduling time in Bozeman, Montana, to take classes at Montana State University. I'm working on a second master's degree in science education. It's a pretty cool program which mixes educational practice and "action research" with science elective courses, including plenty of geology offerings.

Today in the blog, I thought I would begin the process of share some images from my time out west last summer. I'll start with the Bridger Range, north of Bozeman. Here's a meadow where we parked the vans before hiking up into the hills on Dave Lageson's excellent Alpine Field Studies seminar:


Once we had huffed and puffed up about tree line, we started to see some pretty cool geology. Here for instance, you can see tilted, folded, faulted Mississippian-aged strata that have been carved into by a glacier. A few minutes after this photo was taken, the class walked straight down into this cirque and climbed up the other side: there's some serious gravity-fighting going on with a route like that. We had lunch on the other side at the top of that orange-colored chute in the upper left:


In the photo below, my hands bracket a tilted zone of paleo-karst in the Mississippian-aged Madison Limestone. With massive limestone above and below, this orangey zone speaks of a time when the limestone deposits of this area were exposed at the surface. Caves and sinkholes developed, as did an iron-rich paleo-soil. It probably looked a lot like modern-day Florida, without the strip malls and retirees. Later, the sea returned and deposited more limestone on top. The paleo-karst is obvious because it contains big blocks of limestone from cave-roof collapse, and is stained by hematite and limonite:


Fellow DC resident and geology educator Nez Nesbitt follows Dave Lageson (the instructor) south along the crest of the range. The drop to either side was substantial, including the headwall of a cirque to the left (east). The loose scree we were walking over added an additional challenge:

In all that scree on the slope we're walking over, there were some cool fossils, including this awesome crinoid calyx ("head" region) - front and back views:


Atop a peak, we paused for a break, and Dave unfurled his Tibetan prayer flags to flap in the wind. I was struck by how a simple little string of cloth imparted a really cool aesthetic to the mountain-top:


This is the trail leading down Sacagawea Cirque. There's some substantial switchbacking going on here:


Here's me atop the highest peak in the Bridger Range, Sacagawea Peak. The views are pretty good from up there:


The class spent the next day mapping glacial landforms in Sacagawea Cirque: it was fun, but I didn't take as many pictures then. When the mapping was over, I prowled through the lateral moraines for fossiliferous chunks of limestone, and found some awesome rugose corals and other treasures. These samples now reside in the NOVA Historical Geology teaching collection.

Labels: fossils, geology, glacial landforms, montana, msse, structure

Outside of Shamokin, Pennsylvania, is a coal strip mine that has had the coal stripped away. Under the coal was a Pennsylvanian (in the time sense of the word) carbonaceous shale (the Llewellyn Formation), which is now preserved in lovely undulating Appalachian folds. Thanks to the removal of the coal, these fold surfaces appear in three dimensions -- a rarity for structural geologists like myself. The area is known as "The Whaleback" because of one anticline (center) with a shape that evokes a surfacing cetacean:

I went to the Whaleback last fall on a fossil-hunting trip with the The Calvert Marine Museum Fossil Club. In today's post, I'll take a look at the structure, and in a later post, I'll show you some photos of the fossils themselves. Here's some of the guys on the trip:

At the north end of the excavation, a cross-sectional view of the absent upper levels is preserved, showing this syncline. It once continued towards the camera's perspective in the air, a downflung fold between the Whaleback anticline and the neighboring anticline which made up the background "wall" in the first photo.
Okay, that's it for today. Tune in soon for the fossiliferous sequel.

Labels: appalachians, structure

Geological travels in Northern Ireland, Part VI:

The word "joint" in geology refers to any fracture in a rock unit along which movement has NOT occurred. (If movement DOES occur along a fracture, that makes it a fault.)

The Giant's Causeway in County Antrim, Northern Ireland, shows jointing of a particular pattern: the intersection of the joints divide the rock into column-shaped pieces, shaped roughly like an un-sharpened pencil.

This is an image of two of the "Causeway basalt" layers exposed in a gorge east of the Giant's Causeway itself. Note their difference in size: slower cooling produces larger columns. Faster cooling produces smaller columns. Therefore the lower flow cooled off more rapidly than the upper flow.



Lava, when hot, takes up more volume than cold igneous rock. As it cools, the solidifying lava contracts. Because the whole volume of rock is contracting, evenly-spaced centers of contraction develop. Cracks open up to accomodate that contraction. This makes a honeycomb-style pattern, because 3 crack orientations is the minimum number necessary to allow contraction in every direction. These three orientations meet at an average angle of 120º.

The same phenomenon can be seen at Devils Tower, Wyoming.

The weird columnar jointing patterns at the Giants Causeway were used on the cover of Led Zeppelin's album Houses of the Holy (1973). While I was there, I thought about re-creating the album cover with geologists (clothed!) in the same positions as these kids, but I forgot to bring along the album as a reference. Tragic, isn't it?

The overall loss of volume of the (hot versus cold) rock can be estimated with a photograph like this. Divvie the photo into equal units of area, and then count up how many are solid rock and how many are empty air. About 1% shrinkage is seen here -- more than in other places I've seen columnar jointing.