The Blind Men and the Elephant, as Told by Geologists: The Channeled Scablands of Washington

A dry channel in basalt on the Columbia Plateau in central Washington (photo by Mrs. Geotripper)

I'm sure most are familiar with the parable of the blind men and the elephant. Several men investigate an elephant, but each touches a different part, so one describes it as being like a snake (the trunk), and others as a wall (the body), a rope (the tail), a fan (the ear), or a tree (the leg). The story of the Spokane Floods and Channeled Scablands of Washington is pretty much the Blind Men and the Elephant as told by a Geologist. In this retelling, the geologist is just as blind as the others, but hearing the arguments among the others, decides to investigate further. He goes back, touches the trunk, the body, the tail, the leg, and ear, mulls on it for awhile, goes back to the arguing men and says "You aren't gonna believe this guys...".

Channeled Scablands and Palouse Soils near Davenport, Washington (photo by Mrs. Geotripper)

J Harlan Bretz was a Seattle-area high school science teacher in the early 1900s, and after receiving his doctorate in 1913 he became a professor at the University of Washington and later at the University of Chicago. He was interested in glacial features of the Puget Sound, but eventually started to explore the strange landscapes of the Columbia Plateau east of the Cascades. The plateau was volcanic (horizontal basalt flows), but it was covered by a fertile silty sediment called the Palouse Soil. The soils have been used for growing vast amounts of wheat over the years.

But the soils weren't everywhere. In many places they had been stripped away, leaving barren rugged channels across the prairie. Most of the channels could not be directly related to modern rivers, but geologists used the Pleistocene ice ages as an explanation. The vast ice sheets covered and changed the landscape, and river drainages would have been altered. The outwash from the melting glaciers could account for the apparently high volumes of river flow required to form the channels.

But to Bretz, these facts weren't adding up. As topographic maps were finally becoming available for the region, he was starting to see the bigger picture of where these channels were found. He was, as it were, becoming a bit less blind. A startling hypothesis was beginning to form in his mind, an idea that would eventually transform our perception of one of the central underlying assumptions of geology.

Geology made a giant leap forward in the early 1800s when James Hutton first articulated the principle of uniformitarianism, the idea that we can use our understanding of present-day processes to interpret what has happened on the Earth in the past. The idea that things happened according to the laws of nature in the past as they do today was a powerful model for understanding how rocks and structures came to be. As the science developed over the next century, the principle hardened into a sort of orthodoxy that all geological processes were constant, and generally slow. This was in part a response to the idea of catastrophism, a model that suggested that some geologic phenomena could be explained by unusual and violent events. To many geologists this smacked of religious explanations like global floods.

Boulder field near Moses Lake (photo by Mrs. Geotripper)

The more Bretz explored the region, the more he was convinced that something extraordinary had happened here. He documented the braided pattern of the dry watercourses, eventually referring to the rugged landscape as the "Channeled Scablands". He discovered gigantic ripplemarks in some of the channels. His research led him to suggest that a series of huge floods had affected the region, floods without precedent in the modern day. His hypothesis seemed to run counter to the principle of uniformitarianism and his proposal met with fierce opposition in the geological community.

Among the weaknesses of his proposal was the source. Where had so much water (an estimated 500 cubic miles) come from? Bretz didn't have a good answer. At first.

Gigantic ripplemarks on the Camas Prairie of Montana

There were really two "blind" geologists looking at the Scablands problem. At the same time that Bretz was working on the Columbia Plateau, J.T. Pardee of the U.S. Geologic Survey was documenting evidence for a huge ice age lake that flooded canyons and plains in western Montana. It is said that he leaned over during a conference in the 1920s where geologists were eviscerating Bretz's hypothesis, and told his colleague "I know where the water came from". It was a number of years before the two put their ideas together as a comprehensive model, and it took even longer before the hypothesis gained widespread acceptance in the geological community. 

Our understanding of uniformitarianism had to change first. There was actually no logical reason to insist that geological rates were constant, slow, and unchanging. The current understanding of the principle is that the natural laws that govern any phenomena are the constant. If it looked like a river had transported boulders, then if channels existed with much larger boulders, then a much larger river was required, even if no such river exists in the present day. If a "small" crater like Meteor Crater in Arizona was produced by a fifty-foot wide meteorite, then a 130 mile wide crater like the one in the Gulf of Mexico would be produced by a much larger rock, maybe ten miles wide. Such a collision with the Earth would surely be catastrophic, and the available evidence suggests strongly that this one destroyed the dinosaurs and many other species on the planet. Catastrophism can be an acceptable explanation if it doesn't disobey the laws of physics and chemistry.

Bretz and Pardee had put together an amazing geological story: during the ice ages about 15,000 years ago, a massive glacier had blocked river drainages in Montana, producing a lake of 3,000 square miles and 500 cubic miles. In places it would have been 2,000 feet deep. On a number of occasions the dam had collapsed and the water rushed out in a catastrophic flood with a flow ten times that of the Amazon River. The floodwaters rushed across the Palouse prairie, carving the Channeled Scablands during the headlong rush to the sea. No modern historical flood comes close

Ripplemarks on the Camas Prairie in western Montana

We were on the last stages of our exploration of Canada and the Pacific Northwest, making our way back to Seattle via the Camas Prairie in western Montana and across the Channeled Scablands in central Washington. Our first stop found us on the Camas Prairie at Markle Pass.

The Camas Prairie was one of the spots where J.T. Pardee was able to document the existence of glacial Lake Missoula. Not only were there shoreline terraces carved into hillsides (below), but ripplemarks covered the valley floor. These were no normal ripples. They were as much as 30 feet high with wavelengths of 200-300 feet. The hydraulics suggest that the lake was draining fast enough to produce currents of 45 mph on the valley floor.

Ripplemarks and wavecut shorelines on the Camas Prairie in Montana

We left the Camas Prairie and drove west through canyons that had once contained a lake 2,000 feet deep. At Coeur d'Alene and Spokane we broke out into the plains of the Columbia Plateau, and our route passed through hills of Palouse Soil interspersed with jagged channels of basalt. In the afternoon we arrived at one of the most astounding results of the flood, the Dry Falls at Sun Lakes-Dry Falls State Park.

Dry Falls State Park in Washington

The park preserves a 400 foot deep valley that was carved in a matter of days by the flood that was probably 300 feet deep at this point. The waterfall was 3.5 miles wide. It is one of the most astounding pieces of evidence for the gigantic floods. I can only imagine what the scene would have been like on one of those days 15,000 years ago. A day like any other except for the rising fog in the distance and the dull roar of the coming waters.  What a sight it would have been.

Dry Falls State Park in Washington

In the early years of his research, Bretz did not have the benefit of maps or aerial photographs. Today hundreds of thousands of airline passengers pass over the Scablands yearly, often without looking out the plane window. It's quite a sight when you realize what you are seeing. I took a couple of shots a few years ago.The Palouse Soils show clearly in the upper part of the photo, while the dark basalts of the Scablands dominate the lower part. Note the small village on the lower right for a sense of scale.

Even the view from a plane fails to communicate the full size of the flood. Satellite images are the only ones that can reveal the true scale of one of the world's great catastrophic events.

Palouse Soils and Scablands Channel in central Washington

One can say that the flood seems obvious when seeing the satellite view, but Bretz and Pardee had only the ground perspective to work with, and their years of detailed research and careful documentation. They were the blind men touching the different parts of the giant elephant, but they had the insight and evidence to put the whole story together. Decades passed before their model was accepted by the geological community, but they did receive recognition in the end, and the science benefited from a new perspective on the principle of uniformitarianism. It is one of the great stories of geology.

Source: http://www.cr.nps.gov/history/online_books/geology/publications/inf/72-2/sec5.htm

We pulled into our motel at Moses Lake for the final night of our Northern Convergence tour of Canada and the Pacific Northwest. We still had some incredible sights ahead on our last day on the road.

A Convergence of Wonders: Day 6, In the Land of the Great Draining

The young man was stalking an elk along the shore of the huge lake where he had lived for much of his short life. Stepping quietly through the underbrush, he was sweating, not from the heat, but from exertion. There was no heat, even now in the height of summer. The ice lands lay just a few miles to the north, and the scattered low shrubs provided little shelter from the winds pouring off the frigid glacial slopes. He had been stooping for hours, staying out of sight of the animal. He carried no bow, no atlatl, for his culture knew nothing of these things. His weapon was a spear.

He was nearly close enough, and positioned himself for the attack. The elk looked up, startled, but the man had done nothing to reveal himself. The animal started bounding up the slope, and the man started running, hoping for a lucky throw, but he stopped, for now he heard what startled the animal. The ground was rumbling. The lake, he realized, was moving, and currents of muddy water were starting to tear at the banks. He watched, stunned, as the lake level started to drop. From his vantage point on the high ridge, he could see water surging through the gap in the hills, tearing away at the soil and rock. He could hear giant boulders bouncing in the depths.

In the next four days, the lake that he and his people had known for all of their lives simply disappeared. In its place were stinking mud-filled canyons and strange forests of dead trees and stumps that had been hidden by the lake's dark waters.

The elders had spoken of times like these, when the gods removed the lake as punishment for their indiscretions. The young man had no reason to disbelieve the stories, but neither had he ever thought that he would live to see the punishments carried out. His people prepared to migrate south in hopes of better hunting...

Before my archaeologist friends jump all over me, I can state that my story of people in Montana 15,000-20,000 years ago is based in no way on known archaeological data. It's just that I have read the story of the Spokane Floods from the point of view of imaginary witnesses downstream, but not from people who could have been living at the source of the great floods.

The story of J Harlan Bretz and the Spokane Floods is one of the legends of the geological sciences. Bretz had amassed a great deal of evidence supporting his contention that vast amounts of water had swept across Washington in a series of massive floods, but he could not pinpoint a source of the waters. Joseph Pardee, a U.S. Geological Survey scientist could. He had been studying odd terraces on the hills above Missoula Montana, and eventually outlined the boundaries of a huge lake in western Montana that had been hundreds of feet deep, with enough water to fill one of the Great Lakes. It was formed by a glacier that had blocked the westward drainage of the lake near Lake Pend Oreille in Idaho. The floods had come when the unstable dams had collapsed, sending cubic miles of water surging over the Columbia Plateau in Washington.

It was day 6 of our Pacific Northwest expedition, and after exploring the effects of the flood in Washington the previous day, we were having a look at the evidence for the presence of glacial Lake Missoula. Our day would end with our arrival at Glacier National Park.

We didn't stop there, but we couldn't help but pull off the highway and drive through the business district of Wallace, Idaho (below). If that elevated freeway looks somehow familiar, you have seen the movie Dante's Peak. Wallace was the stand-in for the town that was destroyed by the giant volcanic eruption while Pierce Brosnan ran around saving Linda Hamilton, and watching irritating grandma die in the acid lake. We looked and looked, but there just wasn't a huge volcano looming over the town...

The freeway is elevated because town residents fought to keep their historical district from being bulldozed for the highway. There isn't a lot of room in these narrow canyons. The towns grew along with logging and mining (this is a big silver and lead mining district), and there wasn't a lot of level ground to work with.

After stops at the Montana state border for a discussion of mining, and at St. Regis for a discussion of whether to have breakfast or lunch, we set off for the Camas Prairie, the setting for some of the most dramatic evidence of Lake Missoula and the Spokane Floods. The prairie is a bit unusual for western Montana due to a lack of forest cover. There are no through-going rivers to speak of, and a rain shadow effect that keeps precipitation low. The grasslands expose some fascinating features.

As we looked around, we could see that the valley floor was not flat, but had an undulating surface. The strange low hills are hard to visualize from ground level, but are linear ridges hundreds of feet long and as high as 35 feet. The ridges are around 300 feet apart from each other.

The drying grass highlights the ridges. The best view is from above (see this USGS page for a good shot), but we had a pretty good angle from near the top of Markle Pass. These ridges are ripple marks! Just like the kind you can see in the silt of any river. Of course, in a river the ripples may be an inch high, and on the Camas Prairie, the ripples are 30-35 feet high. How? In short, the ripple size is determined in large part by velocity. Water was moving over the surface of this prairie at speeds of 50-60 mph, in water that was hundreds of feet deep! It is astounding to stand at the crest of Markle Pass and imagine the scene during the collapse of the ice dam...

 Before we left, I couldn't help snapping a few pictures of the many flowers littering the valley...

 I figure the first is some kind of clover, but I don't know the other. ID is welcome!

As we headed towards Kalispell and Glacier National Park, we could see strand lines from glacial Lake Missoula on the surrounding hillsides. They are subtle in the picture below, but the horizontal benches record multiple shorelines as the lake level flucuated.

We arrived at the western edge of Glacier National Park late in the afternoon. The afternoon storm was breaking up over Lake McDonald, making a spectacular play of clouds and shadows (see the photo at the top of the page), but my attention was also drawn to the pebbles on the shore. The rocks are a literal rainbow of bright colors.

 There was also a real rainbow along the lakeshore...I love those things!

As the sun came out, we headed south towards Marias Pass, because the Going to the Sun Highway was still buried under as much as 35 feet of snow. It is expected to finally open next week, making it the latest opening ever. We finally arrived at our camp at Lake St. Mary late in the evening. There were a few changes to our camp protocol...we were in bear country now.

The next day we had to decide whether we would flee the country or not...

A Convergence of Wonders: Day 5, In the Land of the Great Flood

In the movie "A River Runs Through It", the narrator ends with the following, one of my favorite quotes in any movie...

Then in the Arctic half-light of the canyon, all existence fades to a being with my soul and memories and the sounds of the Big Blackfoot River and a four-count rhythm and the hope that a fish will rise. Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of those rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs. I am haunted by waters.

Because Norman Maclean's father was a Presbyterian minister in the 1920s, and his preaching and teaching was one of the ongoing themes in the book and movie, I assumed the referred-to flood was Noah's, but when I picked up the book, I was surprised to find that he was actually speaking about the Spokane Floods. My appreciation and respect for Norman Maclean jumped up many notches.

Geology, a science that embraces change more than any other, was caught in a form of stasis at the beginning of the 1900s. Geologists embraced the principle of uniformitarianism, the idea that we can learn of past processes by looking at those that are active today. It is in fact the founding principle of the science, but a hundred years after adopting it, geologists were trapped into a mental construction that required that all processes were the same, and that they operated at the same rate as they do today.

J Harlan Bretz was a high school science teacher in Washington state (later a professor in Chicago). He was mystified by elements of the landscape across the drainage of the Columbia River, especially a region that he called the Channeled Scablands. Numerous dry river channels and small depressions cross the high plateaus of basalt, carving up the windblown silt prairies into islands of fertile soils (the Palouse Soils). I posted an aerial photo of some of these silt islands here.  In places, the dry channels were in deep canyons separated by long-dry waterfalls (the Coulees).

Bretz wanted  to know how this landscape...

...became this one...

Conventional geology explained the dry river channels as having formed as a result of erosion by rivers draining off the melting glaciers of the last ice age, since the vast continent-size glaciers had terminated only a short distance north and east of the region. But the river hypothesis couldn't explain the ponds among other things; rivers don't normally form isolated lakes, except in cutoff oxbows. Bretz began to study the strange landscape, operating without the benefit of aerial or satellite photography. He developed a startling hypothesis: the channels and scablands had formed during a giant flood or series of floods of short duration.

When he published papers on the subject in the 1920s, geologists were aghast. Giant floods covering the landscape to a depth of hundreds of feet were not a part of normal geologic thinking. It smacked more of religious catastrophism. And Bretz couldn't say where the floods had come from. But the evidence accumulated, and after only a few decades, geologists came to accept the model. Luckily, Bretz lived long enough to see his ideas accepted, and he was ultimately given geology's highest from of recognition, the Penrose Medal (geologists don't get Nobels). Other geologists even found the source of the flood, a gigantic lake in Montana (Lake Missoula) that formed as the tongue of a glacier blocked a river drainage. The floods occurred when the unstable dam collapsed, unleashing cubic miles of water across the Washington landscape.
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That's where we were headed on the fifth day of our journey in the Pacific Northwest.

The rains of the previous day were gone and forgotten. The day was bright and clear as we headed north out of Yakima. Our first stop was Central Washington University in Ellensburg where we talked with the archaeologists who have been studying dating of human teeth, and who have been excavating the Wenas Creek Mammoth Site. Pat Lubinski took us on a tour of the lab where the fossil specimens have been laid out (the giant femur in Dr. Lubinski's arms is a lightweight cast, in case you were wondering).

In case you wonder about how we keep our army of students moving and fed, here is a shot of our shopping trip at the big grocery store in Ellensburg. There was a Starbucks, so the students were content.

At Vantage, we had a chance to see some pillow basalts and palagonite clay that formed when some of the plateau basalts flowed into a lake or swamp around 15-16 million years ago. The quartz-rich sands at our feet were deposited by swirling eddies during the Spokane Floods. Quartz is rarely seen in basalt; it was carried to the area from elsewhere.

Vantage also provided us a nice cross-section of the basalts that underlie the Columbia Plateau. The vast outpouring of lava covered tens of thousands of square miles of eastern Washington, Oregon, and northeastern California. Some of the flows traveled several hundred miles from vents near Spokane all the way to the Pacific Coast.

 At Lenore Lakes there were cliffs and deep valleys, but no river, just groundwater-fed lakes.

There were also some beautiful flowers! Does anyone want to identify it for me? It reminded me a bit of our Mariposa Lilies back in the Sierra Nevada.

We were in one of the coulees, the rapidly eroded canyons that formed in the Spokane floods. Eddies in the flood scoured out the columns, but not the overlying entablature rocks, forming deep alcoves. The alcoves have been used for thousands of years by humans as temporary shelters. In the 1930s, a hollow in the cliff nearby proved to be the mold of a rhino-like mammal that had died and then was covered by flowing lavas.

Dry Falls State Park is one of the most spectacular monuments to the vast floods that crossed Washington on the headlong rush to the sea. There was a 300 foot high waterfall here, miles across, which would have been nearly invisible in the deep waters (the photo at the beginning of the post is the main view of the falls). The scale of the event is nearly unimaginable.

Just upstream is the Grand Coulee, an even deeper channel cut by the floodwaters. Dam(n) engineers realized the potential for water storage, and constructed Banks Lake to fill it. The road is spectacular.

We made a brief stop at Grand Coulee Dam ("Roll on, Columbia roll on" - did anyone else sing the Woody Guthrie song in grade school?). I seem to recall reading that this is the biggest chunk of concrete anywhere in the world. I haven't fact-checked this claim.

Then it was a run across the scablands and the Palouse prairie to Spokane and our camp at Bowl and Pitcher State Park along the nearly flooding Spokane River. It was a very nice grassy campsite, and a comfortable night. Tomorrow we would be seeking the source of the floods in Montana. And the glaciers of Glacier National Park.

"Are We There Yet?" In Geology, the Journey is the Destination

Tolkien's Lord of the Rings, if written the way some people might take a trip to a special place like a national park or recreation area...

A hobbit named Frodo comes into possession of an evil magic ring.
He finds a volcano, he throws the ring in, saving Middle-Earth, and he becomes a hero. The end.

Isn't a little bit missing here? When we ask "are we there yet?" in our travels, we miss out on the value of the journey itself in our explorations. In the same way, the story of a mythological quest like Frodo's (or Luke Skywalker, or Perseus) is a journey, not a destination. The interest, the meaning, the richness of the story is in the insight gained by the hero (and thus the reader) along the way. If it is a mythological story, the hero will succeed or will not, but either way, it the journey that provides the significance to the success or failure of the quest.

Geology is a mythology of the earth. We often use the term "myth" as something that is somehow untrue, but that's not really the case. Myths are stories that inform us of how our world or society or culture came into existence, and in more ancient times, myths represented the best understanding of the world and how it worked. Even today, part of this definition of a myth has an interesting twist: "Myths generally take place in a primordial age, when the world had not yet achieved its current form, and explain how the world gained its current form...". Doesn't that sound a lot like a definition for historical geology? We have different tools than a shaman had in a different age, but if you listen to geologists in the field discussing a geological problem around a campfire, I am sure the cadence and flow of the narrative will somehow be similar to arguments around fires thousands of years ago. The Earth is a mysterious place, and we want to understand how it works...

I was looking at the schedule for our summer field studies trip to the Pacific Northwest and Northern Rocky Mountains this week, and I had a vague worry about the amount of driving we will be doing. We will be covering a lot of ground, but almost immediately realized how important the journey itself will be. In one stretch of our trip, we will explore the landscape that was shaped by the Spokane floods during the Ice Ages. If you are not familiar with this incredible story, it goes like this:

During the ice ages, a glacier blocked a major river drainage, forming a vast lake in Montana and Idaho. The unstable ice dam collapsed, sending a cataclysmic flood across Washington.

Well. Look at that capsule description, note the resemblance to the LOTR version above, and you will understand the importance of the journey in geology. On our trip, we will follow the incredible flood in reverse, beginning at the mouth of the Columbia River, where the floodwaters poured into the Pacific Ocean. As we spend three days moving eastward, we will see deep gorges that were carved in hours or days by the rushing torrents. We will see deep caves formed by the swirling waters, and giant ripplemarks thirty feet tall. We will see a landscape in eastern Washington so stripped of sediment and soil that we call it the Channeled Scablands. We'll pass through the valley where the ice dam blocked the rivers and see the wave cut terraces and benches where lakewaters lapped against high mountain ridges. Think of the perspective one gains if while driving (or walking) across this landscape, for hours and hours, realizing that during the floods, this entire landscape was covered by water 300-400 feet deep, moving westward at the speeds similar to the velocity of our vehicles on the highway. The journey is everything in understanding the story of the Earth!

Ironically, it took geologists a long time to accept the story of the Spokane floods. The narrative was put together in the 1920's by a teacher named J Harlan Bretz, who spent years collecting data and making observations across the region. Like shamans in the past, Bretz lacked some of the technology that would have made the story easier to prove (like aerial and satellite photography), but he scrupulously recorded his observations, and eventually his spectacular story moved from being perceived as a fable to being accepted as a firmly grounded geologic model.

I'm looking forward to our journey! The picture above is a view of some of the flood channels in eastern Washington from 35,000 feet.
(this is a re-post of the previous blog entry, which mysteriously disappeared in blogger yesterday)

Disasters, Literary and Literal...

I remember journalism class from junior high: the five 'W's, who, what, where, when and why, and always present BOTH sides of the story. Reading the paper the other morning, I ran across the kind of article (on the possibility that we are in the "end times") that makes me bemoan that second rule that journalists seem to follow so carefully. Presenting "both sides" of a story tends to elevate the wrong side of the story to some kind of equivalence. This is seen often whenever a newspaper decides to cover some facet of creation-science, but it also shows up in this article on end-of-the-world mania. 20 paragraphs in the article quote the "true believers" or discuss the religious beliefs concerning the end times, while only 8 cover the comments of social scientists or skeptics. This story was carried on the front page, no less. And of course, the producers of the movie "2012" are raking in the dough for capitalizing on the mania. Even I enjoyed watching California fall into the Pacific.

Entertaining? Maybe. Helpful? Not really. Believing that the world is going to disappear, or that civilization is going to collapse takes away any kind of feeling of responsibility one might have for making things better. Why feed hungry people, or find shelter for the homeless, or work to lessen the impacts of global warming when the whole shebang is going to end in a few months?

Are you truly interested in learning about the potential for real disasters, with data that is grounded in reality? There are a lot of fascinating possibilities: the world is full of fault lines, volcanoes, steep mountains, huge river systems, and glaciers. I ran across a great article today in the High Country News that is a lot more responsible, and much better for the workings of your brain cells. It is a feature article on the Spokane Floods and J Harlan Bretz. Try to imagine much of state of Washington being flooded by the collapse of a vast ice dam that released the equivalent of several Great Lakes in the space of a day or two. It really happened! Repeatedly.

I've taken my students on tours of the region discussed in the article. Dry Falls, near Grand Coulee Dam (in the top photo) was the site of a 5 mile wide river that was more than 250 feet deep during the height of the floods. The lake that provided all the water covered much of western Montana (Lake Missoula). Abandoned lake shores can be seen in the third picture as terraces on the hillside. When the lake drained, the fast flowing water left behind giant ripple marks on the valley floors, such as those at the Camas Prairie, seen in the second picture.

Reality is so much more interesting...