God of Fire

The geologic processes that shape Earth’s interior and exterior seem to crawl along at a snail’s pace, at least from the perspective of a single life. Sure, in the scope of the planet’s 4.6 billion year existence, Earth has changed quite a bit. But, for the handful of decades we can collect observations, we may be lucky to collect some observations: erosion of a hillside, extension of a glacier, or shift in a river’s channel. For us, we still often have to wait decades to see Earth’s evolution in action.

However, sometimes these processes occur quickly. Rather than waiting decades, drastic changes can occur in a year, a month, or even the blink of an eye. The violent eruption of Mt. St. Helens on 18 May 1980 changed the mountain and the surrounding landscape in a single day. My biochemistry professor in college remembers how her parents had to climb up onto the roof of her house near Tacoma, Washington to push away the ash that was piling up after the eruption.

The recent earthquake in Chile shows us two examples of the big and small changes (by human standards) that geologic events can bring. For the huge change: the city of Concepcion (the closest major urban area to the earthquake) moved a full 10 feet to the west due to the release of energy and the violent shaking that accompanied it. Other cities moved smaller distances (the Argentine capital moved less than a foot), but 10 feet is a pretty significant move by human standards. For the small change: a day on Earth is now 1.26 microseconds shorter.

The recent earthquakes in Chile and Haiti made me wonder about other geologic events that have shaped our environment in the blink of an eye. Earthquakes? Volcanic eruptions? Erosion? Those are the primary examples I could come up with. But, there’s one more category I can think of: volcanic births. An eruption? Yes. But, a very special type of eruption: the eruptive activity that gives birth to a brand new volcano.

The birth of a new volcano is indeed more rare than events like earthquakes and (regular) volcanic eruptions. But, when they occur, they’re a rare treat for geologists to solve more of the great mysteries of volcanism, and a rare nightmare for those who suddenly see the ground crack open beneath their feet. They also make rare (and awful) disaster films, the likes of which Tommy Lee Jones couldn’t even save. Below are two more well-known examples of volcanic births in the last century: one rather benign emergence, and one incredibly disruptive event.

Surtsey:
Iceland is famous for its unique geologic history, as well as its volcanic activity. The undersea volcanic vents that line the mid-ocean ridge of the Atlantic Ocean rise above sea level there to make just enough room for glaciers, volcanic vents, geysers, one of the world’s oldest parliaments, and a republic of over 300,000 people. On 14 November 1963, Iceland received an unexpected addition to its small territory when another portion of the undersea ridge rose above the waters. A trawler off the coast of southern Iceland spotted black smoke rising from the sea, the sign of an undersea eruption. The volcano had likely been born days before (the seafloor depth there was a little over 400 feet), but had only just then earned enough height to graduate from undersea mountain to newborn island. Iceland quickly exerted sovereignty over the developing land, naming it Surtsey (Surtr’s Island) after the mythological Norse giant known for his sword of fire. Eruption activity continued for nearly four years, building the island up to a maximum height of 570 feet. Since 1967, however, the Surtsey volcano has been largely silent, and erosion has reduced the island’s area from 1.0 square mile to half a square mile. Geologists eager to study this volcano have had to share: as soon as eruptions ceased in the 1960s, biologists have been studying the colonization of life on the new land. So far, simple plants, birds, and insects have made their way onto the island, now Iceland’s southernmost point.

Parícutin:
Central Mexico is no stranger to volcanic activity. But, in the midst of World War II, a new fire emerged in the most unlikely of places. On 20 February 1943, Mexican farmer Dionisio Pulido lost his land to a force of nature. Late in the afternoon, he saw steam and smoke rising from his distant cornfields, and smelled the rotten stench of sulfur gas. Within a day, lava flows and a growing cone consumed his crops. A week later, that fissure had risen to an eruptive and explosive volcano as tall as a five-story building. The Pulido farm was buried under the growing mountain, and its lava flows consumed the nearby villages of Parícutin and San Juan Parangaricutiro in the State of Michoacán. Violent eruptions characterized newly-named Parícutin volcano’s first year of life, and the mountain rose to a height of over 1,100 feet. When eruptions finally ceased after nine years, Parícutin had reached attained an elevation of over 1,300 feet. All villages and farms threatened by the volcano were permanently evacuated, and remarkably no one was killed by the mountain’s lava flows and explosions. However, several were struck down by lightning associated with particularly intense eruptions. The mountain has been relatively quiet since the 1952, and is now a popular hiking destination.

Image of the birth of Surtsey (1963) provided by of NOAA.
Image of a church in the abandoned village of Parícutin (1948), partially submerged by lava flows from the Parícutin volcano, provided by the USGS and K. Segerstrom.