Scenic Saturday: Echoes of Mary Anning

A post by Anne JeffersonOn March 9th, 1847, the world lost a great scientist to breast cancer. She was poor, lacked formal education, and practiced a minority religion, but she had a keen eye and mind that helped see things that others couldn’t and interpret them in new ways. Her discoveries made other men famous, but she was excluded from the scientific circles that discussed her findings. Despite this, she carried on making findings and describing them throughout her life, winning the respect of the gentleman scientists of her time.

Maybe this is why the story of Mary Anning fascinates us still today, because it speaks to science and society and the ways that they sometimes uncomfortably interact. We like to presume that science is purely about the pursuit of truth and understanding the world around us. Yet who we allow to become scientists, to receive training and to earn recognition is dictated by societal constraints. And in turn these constraints may narrow the scope of scientific investigation, ultimately limiting the knowledge that is discovered and applied. And maybe we recognize that the same constraints that limited Mary Anning’s participation in the full practice of science are still at work today, just more subtly.

Or maybe it’s just that Mary Anning made her first major discovery at age 12, an age young enough that dinosaur- and fossil-obsessed six-year olds can picture themselves scrambling along cliffs or beach and finding a fossil that changes the way we think about life on earth, past and present.

I’ve written about Mary Anning and her town of Lyme Regis before, so in remembrance of her life and in honor of the contributions of all scientists kept from their full potential by the constraints of history, society, or fate, today I’ll just share a few more pictures of Anning, her fossils, and the landscape in which she worked.

portrait of Anning on left, text on right

A portrait and description of Anning in the fossil gallery of the Natural History Museum in London. Click for larger.

skeleton in a glas case

The first articulated plesiosaur discovered… by Anning on display in the Natural History Museum. The walls of this gallery are lined by fossil reptiles, many collected by Anning.

Black mud piled up at the base of the cliff on the beach.

A landslip near Lyme Regis. The cliffs here are very unstable, and have small failures after every storm. This makes them a great spot for collecting fossils – and very dangerous.

decimeter scale alternation of mudrock and limestone

Close up of the Blue Lias Formation at Lyme Regis. The alternating layers of limestone and shale laid down in a shallow Jurassic sea explain why this formation can be both a cliff forming outcrop and so incredibly unstable. Fortunately, the conditions were nearly perfect for fossil preservation.

White building with lots of windows, labeled Lyme Regis Museum

The wonderful museum in Lyme Regis, built on the site of Anning’s house and first fossil shop. Today the museum is full of fossils and historical artifacts, mostly from Anning and her contemporaries.

Constructed rock walls line a stream as an arched bridge crosses it.

A little stream that flows to the sea through the heart of Lyme Regis. I like to imagine Anning crossing it on her way between home and outcrop. It may have looked quite similar to this during her time.

Categories: academic life, by Anne, fossils, Mesozoic, outcrops

The diminishing returns of lecture preparation

A post by Chris RowanOne of the big challenges of my new job is managing my teaching load, which requires me to prepare and then give four 75 minute lectures a week, every week of term. The challenge is especially great in this, my first semester on the job, since both of the courses I’m teaching are new to me. Although there is some overlap with courses I’ve taught before in Southampton and Edinburgh, much of the time I’m starting from scratch.

Lecture preparation is therefore a big part of my workload at the moment. A rule of thumb I’ve seen bandied about suggests about two hours of preparation for every hour of lecturing. That may be about right, although I’m finding it depends greatly on the course content. For subjects I have previously taught, I already have some idea of how I want to present it and can move right into writing the lecture; but for subjects that I haven’t really taught before, there’s the additional step of making sure that I understand the material, and have clarified the major points that I need to cover, before I can get to actually preparing slides and figures.

One thing I have noticed, however, is that regardless of when I actually start my preparations, I still find myself tweaking them the hour before I’m due to give them. It seems that like so many other things, lecture preparation expands to take up the time available. More significantly, the return on my time investment does not stay constant: working twice as long on a lecture does not mean it is twice as good. Whilst there is clearly some lower bound below which you don’t have a viable lecture, past a certain point you move from mostly creation – amassing material, creating slides and coming up with worked examples – to mostly tweaking – changing slide order, refining text and figures, creating more detailed notes. This time is not wasted – the lecture will still get better – but the amount of benefit gained for a given chunk of time starts to level off.

The asymptotic lecture preparation curve: as your improve your course materials, it takes more and more time to improve them further.

The asymptotic lecture preparation curve: as your improve your course materials, it takes more and more time to improve them further.

This is why I can find myself working on my lectures on the day I give them even if I started my preparations in plenty of time: because you’re not ever going to honestly say that you have created the perfect lecture on, say, earthquake seismology, you can always find ways to improve it. But this is also where things get dangerous for this humble junior academic: if I want my research career to continue, then I need to be writing and publishing papers, planning and starting future investigations, and writing and submitting grant proposals. And it is becoming clear that I am need to actively, deliberately, make the time in my schedule to do these things. If I still need to work on tomorrow’s lectures, I need to put that aside and still spend this morning writing that paper, doing that reading, or writing that code: otherwise I could quite easily spend the entire day getting those animated slides just right.

The trade-off here is that obviously, if I’m limiting the time I’m spending on my lectures, they’re not going to be quite as good as they could be if I did eschew a morning of paper writing to work on them as well. This is not something I’m particularly comfortable with yet, but it’s part of the balancing act I need to perfect: spending enough time overseeing all my areas of responsiblity without neglecting something or running out of hours in the day.

My only comfort is that no lecture plan survives contact with the audience: things that work well in your head, or on your own in your office, don’t work quite so well in the lecture hall. So my aim at the moment is to commit enough time to produce good lectures, that clearly set out the key concepts my students need to learn; but to leave the more involved tweaking until next time I teach these courses, when I have a better idea of which tweaks will be most effective, and where I need to spend time making my lectures clearer or more evocative. And because I’ll not be starting from nothing, on the next iteration the hours I allocate can be used to move higher up the asymptotic curve.

Iteration is the only solution to the lecture preparation time sink.

Iteration is the only solution to the lecture preparation time sink.

The other thing I’ve discovered in the past few weeks – and I probably shouldn’t find it so surprising – is that seven years of blogging about earthquakes, tectonics and other geological matters is an invaluable source of interesting case studies and explanatory figures that quite nicely illustrate important concepts. In that respect, in between stressing about time management, I’m actually quite enjoying reaping what I’ve sown.

Categories: academic life, teaching

Scenic Saturday: Beaver Marsh, Cuyahoga Valley National Park

A few weeks ago, some lovely January sun brought us out of our winter hibernation to explore Cuyahoga Valley National Park. The Geo Kid claimed her Junior Paleontologist badge from the National Park Service, and immediately set out to earn a Junior Ranger badge as well. Her first activity was to write a news story about an animal she saw in the park. Spotting animals was perfectly in line with our intention to go for a walk along the river. As a result, we proudly present a new blogger and our first collaborative blog post.

A post by GeoKidChickadee!
By: Geo Kid

At the Beaver Marsh, we saw a chickadee on Saturday. It was sitting on a branch because it saw us, and we heard it peep. We were looking at a river with little green leaves. We tried to take a picture, but it kept flying from branch to branch, and that is how my story ends.

Chickadee perching on sapling, with grass and fallen leaves in the background.

A post by Anne JeffersonBeavers re-engineer the Ohio and Erie Canal
By: Anne

Cuyahoga Valley National Park is a fascinating palimpsest of human and natural history, which is perhaps most clear in the area known today as Beaver Marsh. In the 1980s, an old junk yard was cleaned up by volunteers, and the park was debating what to do with the land. A parking lot was one plan under consideration. Instead, beavers took matters into their own hands…and teeth. Absent from the Cuyahoga River valley for nearly 150 years, beavers spontaneously recolonized the area in the early 1990s and created a 1.5 m high dam across the remnants of the Ohio and Erie Canal. Their dam ponded water in the canal for at least 1 km upstream, flooded several acres of land, and put an end to plans for a parking lot. Instead, the marsh attracts birds, turtles, muskrats, and visitors. Personally, I like the idea of a flood plain forest transformed into a canalway and towpath by humans, and then transformed again into a wetland by opportunistic beavers. It is comforting to think that no matter how much we alter a landscape, eventually our engineering will be supplanted by natural processes.

foreground of canal floor with small stream, dam and flooded area in background.

A post by Chris RowanAnthropogenic trace fossils
By: Chris

I’ve always been fascinated by canals: a mode of transport that flowered briefly in the early 19th century before being superceded by the cheaper, faster and more flexible railways. Abandoned for a century and left at the mercy of nature (and beavers), partially filled in and choked with fallen trees, it would be easy to miss, if you didn’t know already, that this was a man-made waterway, rather than just an unusually straight tributary of the Cuyahoga. In places, though, the remnants of the locks still stand as a reminder of the human sweat and toil that created it all. But how long, I wonder, before they are obscured as well?

A remnant section of the Ohio & Erie Canal.
Categories: photos

We have a seismometer in our basement…

A post by Chris RowanOr, more accurately, my department does. And it rather handily picked up last week’s magnitude 8 earthquake near the Santa Cruz Islands (subject of the latest Friday Focal Mechanisms), all the way over in the southwest Pacific. Here’s the seismogram:

Seismogram from the M8 Santa Cruz Islands earthquake recorded on the seismometer at Kent State University on 5th February 2013.

At first glance, this looks pretty easy to interpret: the compressional P waves arrive first, just over 20 minutes after the earthquake; the slower transverse (side-to-side motion) S waves kick in around 15 minutes later; and surface waves, which have to travel around the circumference of the earth rather than through it, only got to Ohio around an hour after the initial rupture.

But there is a tiny problem. The smooth passage of earthquake waves through the Earth is disturbed by the presence of the core, which has entirely different physical properties from the overlying mantle. P waves travel much more slowly in the outer core than they do in the lower mantle, and when they cross the core-mantle boundary this abrupt change in speed causes them to be refracted, or bent, to a steeper angle, forcing them deeper into the Earth than they would otherwise have gone. To the P-waves, then, the outer core is a kind of seismic lens: P-waves that would have arrived at seismometers in this “shadow zone” have been bent away, focussed to a point further towards the other side of the Earth from the source earthquake. This means that between 12,000 to 16,000 kilometres from the rupture (or 110 and 140 degrees around a great circle path), you don’t see any P waves that have travelled directly from the rupture to your seismometer . For S-waves, the core is more like a roadblock: no direct S waves are detected anywhere more than 12,000 kilometres (110 degrees) from the source earthquake. This is actually the key piece of evidence that the outer core is liquid: because liquids cannot maintain the shear stresses necessary to transmit tranverse waves, the S waves just peter out when they hit the core mantle boundary.

The paths of P and S waves generated by an earthquake through the mantle. The shadow zones are the result of refraction of P waves away from the surface, and the blocking of S waves, by the outer core. PKP is a wave that has travelled through the outer core; PKIKP is a wave that has travelled through the inner core as well.

The paths of P and S waves generated by an earthquake through the mantle. The shadow zones are the result of refraction of P waves away from the surface, and the blocking of S waves, by the outer core. PKP is a wave that has travelled through the outer core; PKIKP is a wave that has travelled through the inner core as well.

And here’s where the problem comes in: if you measure the distance between the Santa Cruz quake and northeast Ohio, we find that we’re more than 110 degrees away: we should be in the shadow zone for direct waves.

If you measure the great circle distance between the Santa Cruz Islands and the Eastern US, you find yourself in the shadow zone.

If you measure the great circle distance between the Santa Cruz Islands and the Eastern US, you find yourself in the shadow zone.

Clearly something else is going on, and the key word is ‘direct’. Boundaries do not just refract and dissipate waves: they can reflect them too. More shallowly travelling P and S waves can bounce back down into the mantle off the base of the crust and lithosphere, thus diverting around the core and into the shadow zone. While reflections off the core-mantle boundary can’t make it into the shadow zone (at the critical distance, their incident angle has shallowed to the point that they graze the core-mantle boundary rather than reflecting), reflections from the boundary between the inner and outer cores might.

Some ways that P and waves can be reflected into the shadow zone and register on seismometers there.

Some ways that P and waves can be reflected into the shadow zone and register on seismometers there.

Another property of boundaries within the Earth is that they can change the nature of the waves that pass through them: when bouncing back down from the crust or up from the core-mantle boundary, or refracting through the core-mantle boundary, P waves can be turned to S waves, and S waves can be turned to P. Some of these waves (such as the SKS wave that is converted to a P wave that travels through the outer core, then converted back to an S wave when it passes back into the mantle again) can also make it into the shadow zone.

Some of the wave conversions that can take place at velocity boundaries within the Earth, such as the Moho and the core-mantle boundary.

Some of the wave conversions that can take place at velocity boundaries within the Earth, such as the Moho and the core-mantle boundary.

It seems, then, that rather than direct P and S waves, it is waves that have taken a more exotic route through the Earth from the Santa Cruz Islands rupture that ended up being picked up in Kent:

KSUO sesimogram for the Sant Cruz Islands quake, corrected to show reflected/converted rather than direct arrivals.

People much more qualified at interpreting seismograms seem to agree. IRIS have produced one of their trademark cool animations of the seismic waves from the Santa Cruz Islands quake propogating across the Earthscope transportable array, which has reached the midwest on it’s gradual migration from the west coast to the east. Like the Kent seismometer, the array is picking up seismic waves despite being in the shadow zone, and the seismogram running along the bottom of the screen does indeed label these as converted and reflected phases rather than direct arrivals:

http://youtu.be/jr6ELIjhRMs

It’s funny how things turn out: when I first looked up the Kent seismograph record last week, I thought it would just be a conveniently timed hook to kick off my geophysics lecture on global seismology. But, by being more complicated than I initially thought, it was actually a good reference point for a lot of the material I covered. Oh yes, I am going to enjoy having a seismometer in the basement…

Categories: earthquakes, geophysics

Stuff we linked to on Twitter last week

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