Annals of the Former World

by John McPhee

  For establishing our bearings through time, we obviously owe an incalculable debt to vanished and endangered species, and if the condor, the kit fox, the human being, the black-footed ferret, and the three-toed sloth are at the head of the line to go next, there is less cause for dismay than for placid acceptance of the march of prodigious tradition. The opossum may be Cretaceous, certain clams Devonian, and oysters Triassic, but for each and every oyster in the sea, it seems, there is a species gone forever. Be a possum is the message, and you may outlive God. The Cenozoic era—coming just after the Cretaceous Extinction, and extending as it does to the latest tick of time—was subdivided in the eighteen-thirties according to percentages of molluscan species that have survived into the present. From the Eocene, for example, which ended some thirty-five million years ago, roughly three and a half per cent have survived. Eocene means “dawn of the recent.” The first horse appeared in the Eocene. Looking something like a toy collie, it stood three hands high. From the Miocene (“moderately recent”), some fifteen per cent of molluscan species survive; from the Pliocene (“more recent”), the number approaches half. As creatures go, mollusks have been particularly hardy. Many species of mammals fell in the Pliocene as prairie grassland turned to tundra and ice advanced from the north. From the Pleistocene (“most recent”), more than ninety per cent of molluscan species live on. The Pleistocene has also been traditionally defined by four great glacial pulsations, spread across a million years—the Nebraskan ice sheet, the Kansan ice sheet, the Illinoian and Wisconsinan ice sheets. It now appears that these were the last of many glacial pulsations that have occurred in relatively recent epochs, beginning probably in the Miocene and reaching a climax in the ice sheets of Pleistocene time. The names of the Cenozoic epochs were proposed by Charles Lyell, whose Principles of Geology was the standard text through much of the nineteenth century. To settle problems here and there, the Oligocene (“but a little recent”) was inserted in the list, and the Paleocene (“old recent”) was sliced off the beginning. Paleocene, Eocene, Oligocene, Miocene, Pliocene, Pleistocene—sixty-five million to ten thousand years before the present. Divisions grew shorter in the Cenozoic—the epochs range from twenty-one million years to less than two million—because so much remains on earth of Cenozoic worlds.

  Ignoring its geology, I guess I don’t know a paragraph in literature that I prefer to the one Joseph Conrad begins by saying, “Going up that river was like travelling back to the earliest beginnings of the world, when vegetation rioted on the earth and the big trees were kings.” He says, moments later, “This stillness of life did not in the least resemble a peace. It was the stillness of an implacable force brooding over an inscrutable intention. It looked at you with a vengeful aspect. I got used to it afterwards; I did not see it anymore; I had no time. I had to keep guessing at the channel; I had to discern, mostly by inspiration, the signs of hidden banks; I watched for sunken stones.” Metaphorically, he travelled back to the Carboniferous, when the vegetal riot occurred, but scarcely was that the beginning of the world. The first plants to appear on land, ever, appeared in the Silurian. Through the Ordovician and the Cambrian, there had been no terrestrial vegetation at all. And in the deep shadow below the Cambrian were seven years for every one in all subsequent time. There were four billion years back there—since the earliest beginnings of the world. There were scant to nonexistent fossils. There were the cores of the cratons, the rock of the continental shields, the rock of the surface of the moon. There were the reefs of the Witwatersrand. There was the rock that would become the Adirondack Mountains, the Wind River summits, the Seward Peninsula, Manhattan Island. But so little is known of this seven-eighths of all history that in a typical two-pound geological textbook there are fourteen pages on Precambrian time. The Precambrian has attracted geologists of exceptional imagination, who see families of mountains in folded schists. Uranium-lead, rubidium-strontium, and potassium-argon radiometric dating have helped them to sort out their Kenoran, Hudsonian, Grenvillean orogenies, their Aphebian, Hadrynian, Paleohelikian time. Isolating the first two billion years of the life of the earth, they called it the Archean Eon. In the middle Archean, photosynthesis began. Much later in the Precambrian, somewhere in Helikian or Hadrynian time, aerobic life appeared. There is no younger rock in the United States than the travertine that is forming in Thermopolis, Wyoming. A 2.7-billion-year-old outcrop of the core of the continent is at the head of Wind River Canyon, twenty miles away. Precambrian—4,560 to 544 million years before the present.

  At the other end of the scale is the Holocene, the past ten thousand years, also called the Recent—Cro-Magnon brooding beside the melting ice. (The Primitive and Secondary eras of eighteenth-century geology are long since gone from the vocabulary, but oddly enough the Tertiary remains. The term, which is in general use, embraces nearly all of the Cenozoic, from the Cretaceous Extinction to the end of the Pliocene, while the relatively short time that follows—the Pleistocene plus the Holocene—has come to be called the Quaternary. The moraines left by ice sheets are Quaternary, as are the uppermost basin fillings in the Basin and Range.) It was at some moment in the Pleistocene that humanity crossed what the geologist-theologian Pierre Teilhard de Chardin called the Threshold of Reflection, when something in people “turned back on itself and so to speak took an infinite leap forward. Outwardly, almost nothing in the organs had changed. But in depth, a great revolution had taken place: consciousness was now leaping and boiling in a space of super-sensory relationships and representations; and simultaneously consciousness was capable of perceiving itself in the concentrated simplicity of its faculties. And all this happened for the first time.” Friars of another sort—evangelists of the environmental movement—have often made use of the geologic time scale to place in perspective that great “leap forward” and to suggest what our reflective capacities may have meant to Mother Earth. David Brower, for example, the founder of Friends of the Earth and emeritus hero of the Sierra Club, has tirelessly travelled the United States delivering what he himself refers to as “the sermon,” and sooner or later in every talk he invites his listeners to consider the six days of Genesis as a figure of speech for what has in fact been four and a half billion years. In this adjustment, a day equals something like seven hundred and fifty million years, and thus “all day Monday and until Tuesday noon creation was busy getting the earth going.” Life began Tuesday noon, and “the beautiful, organic wholeness of it” developed over the next four days. “At 4 P.M. Saturday, the big reptiles came on. Five hours later, when the redwoods appeared, there were no more big reptiles. At three minutes before midnight, the human race appeared. At one-fourth of a second before midnight, Christ arrived. At one-fortieth of a second before midnight, the Industrial Revolution began. We are surrounded with people who think that what we have been doing for that one-fortieth of a second can go on indefinitely. They are considered normal, but they are stark raving mad.” Brower holds up a photograph of the world —blue, green, and swirling white. “This is the sudden insight from Apollo,” he says. “There it is. That’s all. We see through the eyes of the astronauts how fragile our life really is.” Brower has computed that we are driving through the earth’s resources at a rate comparable to an automobile going a hundred and twenty-eight miles an hour—and he says that we are accelerating.

  In like manner, geologists will sometimes use the calendar year as a unit to represent the time scale, and in such terms the Precambrian runs from New Year’s Day until well after Halloween. Dinosaurs appear in the middle of December and are gone the day after Christmas. The last ice sheet melts on December 31st at one minute before midnight, and the Roman Empire lasts five seconds. With your arms spread wide again to represent all time on earth, look at one hand with its line of life. The Cambrian begins in the wrist, and the Permian Extinction is at the outer end of the palm. All of the Cenozoic is in a fingerprint, and in a single stroke with a medium-grained nail file you could eradicate human history. Geologists live with t
he geologic scale. Individually, they may or may not be alarmed by the rate of exploitation of the things they discover, but, like the environmentalists, they use these repetitive analogies to place the human record in perspective—to see the Age of Reflection, the last few thousand years, as a small bright sparkle at the end of time. They often liken humanity’s presence on earth to a brief visitation from elsewhere in space, its luminous, explosive characteristics consisting not merely of the burst of population in the twentieth century but of the whole residence of people on earth—a single detonation, resembling nothing so much as a nuclear implosion with its successive neutron generations, whole generations following one another once every hundred-millionth of a second, temperatures building up into the millions of degrees and stripping atoms until bare nuclei are wandering in electron seas, pressures building up to a hundred million atmospheres, the core expanding at five million miles an hour, expanding in a way that is quite different from all else in the universe, unless there are others who also make bombs.

  The human consciousness may have begun to leap and boil some sunny day in the Pleistocene, but the race by and large has retained the essence of its animal sense of time. People think in five generations—two ahead, two behind—with heavy concentration on the one in the middle. Possibly that is tragic, and possibly there is no choice. The human mind may not have evolved enough to be able to comprehend deep time. It may only be able to measure it. At least, that is what geologists wonder sometimes, and they have imparted the questions to me. They wonder to what extent they truly sense the passage of millions of years. They wonder to what extent it is possible to absorb a set of facts and move with them, in a sensory manner, beyond the recording intellect and into the abyssal eons. Primordial inhibition may stand in the way. On the geologic time scale, a human lifetime is reduced to a brevity that is too inhibiting to think about. The mind blocks the information. Geologists, dealing always with deep time, find that it seeps into their beings and affects them in various ways. They see the unbelievable swiftness with which one evolving species on the earth has learned to reach into the dirt of some tropical island and fling 747s into the sky. They see the thin band in which are the all but indiscernible stratifications of Cro-Magnon, Moses, Leonardo, and now. Seeing a race unaware of its own instantaneousness in time, they can reel off all the species that have come and gone, with emphasis on those that have specialized themselves to death.

  In geologists’ own lives, the least effect of time is that they think in two languages, function on two different scales.

  “You care less about civilization. Half of me gets upset with civilization. The other half does not get upset. I shrug and think, So let the cockroaches take over.”

  “Mammalian species last, typically, two million years. We’ve about used up ours. Every time Leakey finds something older, I say, ‘Oh! We’re overdue.’ We will be handing the dominant-species-on-earth position to some other group. We’ll have to be clever not to.”

  “A sense of geologic time is the most important thing to suggest to the nongeologist: the slow rate of geologic processes, centimetres per year, with huge effects, if continued for enough years.”

  “A million years is a short time—the shortest worth messing with for most problems. You begin tuning your mind to a time scale that is the planet’s time scale. For me, it is almost unconscious now and is a kind of companionship with the earth.”

  “It didn’t take very long for those mountains to come up, to be deroofed, and to be thrust eastward. Then the motion stopped. That happened in maybe ten million years, and to a geologist that’s really fast.”

  “If you free yourself from the conventional reaction to a quantity like a million years, you free yourself a bit from the boundaries of human time. And then in a way you do not live at all, but in another way you live forever.”

  One is tempted to condense time, somewhat glibly—to say, for example, that the faulting which lifted up the mountains of the Basin and Range began “only” eight million years ago. The late Miocene was “a mere” eight million years ago. That the Rocky Mountains were building seventy million years ago and the Appalachians were folding four hundred million years ago does not impose brevity on eight million years. What is to be avoided is an abridgment of deep time in a manner that tends to veil its already obscure dimensions. The periods are so long—the eighty million years of the Cretaceous, the forty-six million years of the Devonian—that each has acquired its own internal time scale, intricately constructed and elaborately named. I will not attempt to reproduce this amazing list but only to suggest its profusion. The stages and ages, as they are called—the subdivisions of all of the epochs and eras—read like a roll call in a district council somewhere in Armenia. Berriasian, Valanginian, Hauterivian, Barremian, Bedoulian, Gargasian, Aptian, Albian, Cenomanian, Turonian, Coniacian, Santonian, Campanian, and Maastrichtian, reading upward, are chambers of Cretaceous time. Actually, the Cretaceous has been cut even finer, with about fifty clear time lines now, subdivisions of the subdivisions of its eighty million years. The Triassic consists of the Scythian, the Anisian, the Ladinian, the Carnian, the Norian, and the Rhaetian, averaging seven million years. What survived the Rhaetian lived on into the Liassic. The Liassic, an epoch, comes just after the Triassic and is the early part of the Jurassic. Kazanian, Couvinean, Kopaninian, Kimmeridgian, Tremadocian, Tournaisian, Tatarian, Tiffanian … When geologists choose to ignore these names, as they frequently do, they resort to terms that are undecipherably simple, and will note, typically, that an event which occurred in some flooded summer 341.27 million years ago took place in the “early late-middle Mississippian.” To say “middle Mississippian” might do, but with millions of years in the middle Mississippian there is an evident compunction to be more precise. “Late” and “early” always refer to time. “Upper” and “lower” refer to rock. “Upper Devonian” and “lower Jurassic” are slices of time expressed in rock.

  In the middle Mississippian, there was an age called Meramecian, of about eight million years, and it was during the Meramecian that the Tonka—the older of the formations in the angular unconformity in Carlin Canyon, Nevada—was accumulating along an island coast. The wine-red sandstone and its pebbles may have been sand and pebbles of the beach. The island was of considerable size, apparently, and stood off North America in much the way that Taiwan now reposes near the coast of China. Where there were swamps, they were full of awkward amphibians, not entirely masking in their appearance the human race they would become. They struggled along on stumpy legs. The strait separating the Meramecian island from the North American mainland was about four hundred miles wide and contained crossopterygian fish, from which the amphibians had evolved. There were shell-crushing sharks, horn corals, meadows of sea lilies, and spiral bryozoans that looked like screws. The strait was warm and equatorial. The equator ran through the present site of San Diego, up through Colorado and Nebraska, and on through the site of Lake Superior. The lake would not be dug for nearly three hundred and forty million years. If in the Meramecian you were to have followed the present route of Interstate 80 moving east, you would have raised the coast of North America near the Wyoming border, and landed on a red beach. Gradually, you would have ascended through equatorial fern forests, in red soil, to a high point somewhere near Laramie, to begin there a long general downgrade among low hills to Grand Island, Nebraska, where you would have come to an arm of the sea. The far shore was four hundred miles to the east, where the Mississippi River is now, and beyond it was a low, wet, humid, flat terrain, dense with ferns and fern trees—Illinois, Indiana, Ohio. Halfway across Ohio, you would have come to a second epicratonic sea, its far shore in central Pennsylvania. In New Jersey, you would have begun to ascend mountains and ever higher mountains, their summits girt with ice and capped with snow, not unlike Mt. Kenya, not unlike the present peaks of New Guinea and Ecuador, with their snowfields and glaciers in the equatorial tropics. Reaching the site of the George Washington Bridge,
you would have been at considerable altitude, looking at mountains and more mountains before you in future Africa.