Ladies and gentlemen, I’m happy to say that the Passing Strangeness e-book is nearly ready to be published. I’ll have more details for you within a few weeks.
As it starts to wrap up and I wait out a variety of bureaucratic processes, I’ve begun a new book project False Steps. As before, work will be posted beforehand in a blog, which can be found here. In it I hope to trace a variety of ways in which the Space Race (which I’ve generously expanded outside of the usual 1957-1969 time frame to 1939-Present Day) might have gone. If you liked the Passing Strangeness posts Orbital Longshot and The Ghost Rockets, it just might be your cup of tea. Regardless, I invite you to come on over and check it out — Paul Drye
Beneath Land’s End and Scilly rocks
Sunk lies a town that Ocean mocks.
- Unattributed rhyme from Legend Land, Volume 2, George Basil Barham, published in 1924
The Isles of Scilly barely enter into history. About the only major event associated with them was the Scilly Naval Disaster of 1707, when the gloriously named Admiral Sir Cloudesley Shovell sailed a significant fraction of the British Navy into their shallow waters, losing four ships and approximately 1,400 sailors’ lives—including his own. The disaster led to the solution of the Longitude Problem by means of naval chronometers, and as these precise clocks spread they and their descendants revolutionized war, industry, trade, and science. Thank Admiral Shovell when the alarm clock wakes you tomorrow morning. However, the other particularly interesting thing about the Isles of Scilly looks back into the past rather than forward into the Industrial Age.
Britain is lousy with towns and even entire lands lost to the sea. H.P. Lovecraft was influenced by the story of Dunwich in Suffolk: one of the most important towns in medieval England, it was progressively swept into the ocean after a storm surge hit it in 1286. A bit further east the central part of the North Sea covers Doggerland, which was above sea level during the last Ice Age and only submerged about 6500 BC; the author owns a chunk of mammoth tusk dredged up from the area. The effect of the Ice Age on Britain hit Scilly too, but in a less obvious way. The southern half of Britain is further underwater than it should be after accounting for the melting of ancient ice caps, while the north is, in places, actually higher than it was at the Last Glacial Maximum, 20,000 years ago. This is because one of the ice caps was actually on Scotland and Northern England, and the weight of the ice pressed that section of the island down. Now that the ice has been removed, Britain has been slowly rebalancing itself, and the southern reaches are subsiding as the north rebounds, like a great tectonic see-saw.
This post-glacial rebound is continuing even as we speak, so the Isles of Scilly—literally the most southern point of England—have changed well into the last couple of millennia. It’s worth looking at the British Admiralty’s depth charts for the waters around the islands. The rather small brown areas are the present-day Isles, while the green represents flats that can become exposed if the tide is low enough. The blue area is a rough approximation of what Scilly would have been like some time in the past, with a depth of four meters or less. As you can see, this produces a single large island (sometimes called Ennor after a castle on the largest of the present islands, St. Mary’s) out of most of the plural, 21st century Scillies. The main difficulty here is knowing just when this island existed. Charles Thomas, emeritus Professor of Cornish Studies at Exeter University has suggested it disappeared some time around 1600 BC, but others have suggested that it existed until more recently—possibly as late as 500 AD. It’s worth noting that the Roman name for the Isles, Scillonia insula, is singular.
If the latter is true then Ennor existed well into the Celtic period of Britain, which is interesting because there are several legends about drowned lands in Celtic mythology. Readers who know their Thomas Malory (or Jack Vance) are aware of Lyonesse, home of the Arthurian Tristan, and Lyonesse has long been associated with the Isles of Scilly. However, there are signs that the association is a 16th-century invention. The first known mentions of Lyonesse in literature are just variations on Lodonesia, which is the Roman name for Lothian in Scotland; “Tristan” itself is just a variant, via Latin, of the Pictish royal name “Drust″. The identity of Lyonesse and Scilly (or, rather, the Seven Stones Reef , deathbed of the Torrey Canyon, to the northeast) wasn’t entirely cemented until Alfred, Lord Tennyson got his hands on it in his mid-19th century Idylls of the King.
All is not lost, however. The Celtic legends go deeper than Lyonesse, to stories such as Brittany’s Ker-Is (or Caer Ys, if you prefer the more common Welsh or Narnian spelling to the Breton). It too is a sunken land, this time placed in Douarnenez Bay south-east of Brest. There is even a potential connection between it and Scilly: Mont Saint-Michel is not too far away on the border between Brittany and Normandy and it was the sister house of the remarkably similar-looking St. Michael’s Mount in Cornwall—right where the British coast is closest to Scilly and where a drowned forest can be seen at low tide. It doesn’t take a lot of imagination to suppose a Breton monk, familiar with the story of Ker-Is, being transferred to St. Michael’s Mount when it was gifted to the Norman monastery in the 11th century and him making the obvious inference when he saw what was in the water.
On the other hand, the story may be entirely native. The Welsh have a similar legend, Cantre’r Gwaelod, which is supposed to be a drowned hundred in Cardigan Bay. If it comes down to it, the story could even be both native and imported. After all, Brittany was colonized by Britons from Wales and Cornwall in the 4th and 6th centuries (a trek legendarily led by a Welsh prince whose name hits two fantasy heroes in one blow, Conan Meriadoc). Ker-Is may just be the colonists’ version of Cantre’r Gwaelod, 1500 years on.
The main difficulty with fitting Ennor to any of these stories is that they’re all of sudden inundation. Most are about sinful lands suffering the wrath of God and feature a single survivor literally galloping his horse away from the clawing waves—a myth memorialized in the coat of arms of the Trevelyan family of Cornwall. The flooding of Scilly’s central plain would have taken many years; a snail could have escaped, let alone a horse. Still, this isn’t a fatal rupture of the connection between the two. Human beings have a knack for making stories more interesting, and it’s not too difficult to see a folk tale that “once there were farms under the bay” slowly turn into a story of dash and adventure, especially under the influence of the biblical story of Noah.
Ultimately, we’ll learn more about Ennor only through archaeological investigation. Surprisingly for the heritage-mad United Kingdom there’s never been a large-scale investigation of the waters around the present-day isles. But the so-called Lyonesse Project began in 2009, and is to run until 2011. Its goal is to determine what the Isles of Scilly were like prior to inundation. Results are expected in the next few months.
In the history of astronomy up to 1992 there were only two people who could cleanly claim to have discovered a planet: William Herschel found Uranus and Urbain Le Verrier can claim Neptune; if you’re feeling somewhat charitable, you can give half of Neptune to John Couch Adams. For almost eighty years Clyde Tombaugh was in this group, but Pluto was famously demoted in 2006. The discoverers of the first four asteroids (Giuseppe Piazzi who discovered Ceres; Pallas’ discovery by Heinrich Olbers; Karl Harding who claimed Juno; and Olbers again with Vesta) had a similar fate. For close to forty years they were planet-discoverers. All their “planets” were discovered between 1801 and 1807, and were considered important enough for the title because they were the only known planetoids until Astraea was discovered in 1845. But that discovery signaled a rash of new inhabitants for the Asteroid Belt—eighteen more by the end of 1852, and a total of 62 by 1860; it became clear that the previously lonely four were something quite different from planets and so they were downgraded.
Since the 1990s, though, a variety of new techniques has uncovered more than 500 more planets to date—the difference now being that increases in instrument sensitivity make it possible to see planets outside of the Sun’s system, in the systems of the much more distant stars. For a little while in the 1960s and early ’70s, though, one other astronomer made a plausible claim that he’d discovered a planet, and it too was outside the Solar System.
That astronomer was Piet “Peter” van de Kamp, from 1937 to 1972 the director of Sproul Observatory of Pennsylvania’s Swarthmore College. Van de Kamp’s claim needed to be taken seriously because his specialty was the tiny motions of stars in the sky and the announcement depended on just that.
It seems that while studying the proper motion of 18,000 stars he started considering the possibility that he could find a planet or planets around Barnard’s Star. Barnard’s Star is notable for two main reasons: it is the second closest star system to the Earth (third, if you count the Sun), and it has the largest proper motion of any star. In other words, it changes its position in the sky faster than any other, taking “only” 173 years to cover a width equal to the full Moon’s. Van de Kamp’s insight was that while planets themselves were invisble to the technology of the time, no star with planets would move in a straight line. Instead, the planets would tug it this way and that as they orbited the star, causing it to make tiny loops in the sky. As Barnard’s Star was so close, the loops would be relatively large and easy to see.
Of course, “relatively” is the key word here. Barnard’s Star was already making little loops because of the Earth’s own motion around the Sun, and they would be about 100 times larger than the ones caused by any planet orbiting the distant star. Depending on exactly how big the hypothetical planet was, and how far away it was from the star, the displacement it caused would be on the order of a micrometer (one one-millionth of a meter) on Sproul Observatory’s photographic plates. Nevertheless, van de Kamp thought he could pull it off.
He began his observations shortly after moving to Sproul in the spring of 1937, and kept them up for 26 years before announcing that he had in fact discovered a planet around Barnard’s Star. By his calculation it was about 60% bigger than the planet Jupiter, and it orbited the star at a distance of 4.4 AU (a bit shy of Jupiter’s distance from our own Sun). His discovery made quite a splash, as being the first to see an extra-solar planet (even indirectly) was a major coup. Other scientists had a hard time duplicating his results, but this was no great surprise: it relied on the Sproul Observatory’s 24-inch refractor, a kind of photographic telescope that was being mothballed in other observatories in favour of spectroscopic ones; furthermore van de Kamp had needed more than two decades of observations to be sure. It was going to take time for anyone else to check his results.
The first sign of trouble came after van de Kamp announced planets around other stars too: Epsilon Eridani, 61 Cygni, and one he’d mooted back in 1951, Lalande 21185. Another astronomer, Bob Harrington, noticed that the shape of the planetary wobbles was the same for all three, and for Barnard’s Star too—as if it were the photographic plates that were moving, not the stars. That turned out to be the case. When it was first made the Sproul Observatory telescope van de Kamp was using had had one of its lenses inserted the wrong way, and while the effect on its operation was very small, in 1949 it had been removed and reset the proper way. The slight change in the lens had made a slight change in the way light focused on photographic plates taken with the telescope, and by bad luck the change was about the same size as what van de Kamp had been expecting to see from his planets. He agreed that all of his data prior to 1950 was now suspect, but still argued that everything taken since then still supported his discovery.
With the idea of instrument error now in the open, though, another astronomer by the name of George Gatewood published a paper in 1973 which demolished van de Kamp’s planets. The consensus is now that there was a cycle causing the image of the stars to move, but that it was down here on Earth. The telescope underwent regular maintenance, and every time it did its focus shifted ever so slightly and made any star it observed appear to have moved. Ironically, Gatewood eventually changed his mind about one of van de Kamp’s claims, Lalande 21185, but this too has turned out to be instrument error
After retiring, van de Kamp returned to his native Netherlands, where he died on May 18th, 1995. To the end he believed he had found at least one planet around Barnard’s Star, and maybe two. One real set of planets, orbiting the pulsar PSR 1257+12, had been discovered in 1992 but they were a peculiar case having probably formed after a supernova and not giving any real insight into planets in the universe as a whole. The Golden Age of Extra-Solar Planets began when Michel Mayor and Didier Queloz announced they had discovered 51 Pegasi b (AKA Bellerophon) just under five months after van de Kamp passed away. Its existence, as well as that of hundreds of others of new planets since then, has been demonstrated conclusively using two new techniques called the Doppler Method and the Transit Method. Van de Kamp’s photographic method is now considered a dead end.
One of the many inexplicable statements in historical literature is Gaspar de Carvajal’s description of his travels down the Amazon River with Francisco de Orellana. He says in numerous ways that the banks of the Amazon were stuffed with people, literally village after village for most of its length. No-one else reported this. All subsequent expeditions found the Amazon Basin much as it is today—thinly inhabited. Indeed it had to be this way, as Amazonian soils are notoriously poor for farming. The tragedy of modern-day deforestation of the jungle there is that the poor Brazilian farmers doing the cutting end up with farms that can’t support them for more than a few years before the soil’s nutrients are gone. Even the native Amazonians have to resort to slash-and-burn agriculture, clearing an area then moving on after a while to let the soil recover rather than settling in villages. De Carvajal, like many early explorers, must have been embellishing his tale to the point of lying.
Except maybe not.
De Orellana’s expedition was the first to reach the deep Amazon jungle, in 1541. Surprisingly he began from the west coast of South America, crossing the Andes from the Spanish conquests in Peru and then working his way down to the mouth of the river where the Portuguese had a presence. In between was terra incognita to Europeans. From the end of this expedition in 1542 until until 1637 there were no other trips up or down much of the Amazon (barring the bizarre Pedro de Ursúa and Lope de Aguirre episode two decades later).
Pedro Teixeira was responsible for that new expedition, and he reported a green desert: trees and rampant foliage, and no villages worth mentioning let alone entire civilizations. So it’s been down to the present day: if de Carvajal were telling the truth, the ninety-five years between the two expeditions concealed the death of literally millions of people and an entire way of life.
As archaeology climbed out of pseudo-science during the 19th century, its practitioners developed a hard-nosed attitude about lost civilizations. The Mayans may have been disappeared but Chichen Itza remained; we don’t even know what the Indus Valley people called themselves, but Mohenjo Daro is a monumental testament to their existence. Atlantis and the Lost Tribes of Israel, though? Well….
Until recently, Amazonian civilization fell into the latter category, and may end up there still. For a long time, De Carvajal’s account was the lonely piece of evidence that it ever existed, and since early travel accounts brought us such non-existent wonders as the gold-digging ants of Central Asia, archaeologists were skeptical.
A major problem is the Amazonian environment itself. As we’ve discussed elsewhere, archaeology is easiest in cold, dry environments where all sorts of artifacts can survive. Incan civilization’s remains include beautiful items made of cloth and wood thanks to the high desert in which many Incas lived. But the Amazon presents the opposite conditions: rampant moisture and life literally eat anything other than metal or stone. Worse, the Amazon is extremely short on stone, and no metals besides gold and silver (and a little copper in the Andes) were used south of Panama. Of the wood, bone, plant materials, cloth, and ceramic that could have been the foundation of Amazonian civilization, only the latter could have survived.
This leads to terra preta de Indio, or just “terra preta” for short, the Brazilian Portuguese name for an unusual phenomenon. Good farming soils have many silicate particles, which trap the nutrients a growing crop needs. Amazonian soils are low in silicate and high in aluminum and iron oxide; those oxides have the opposite effect to silicate, making nutrients susceptible to leaching when the rain comes down.
But here and there through the Amazon are patches of terra preta (“black soil”) that are extremely fertile despite being low in silicates as well. A high fraction of carbon particles from burned trees and plants, which also have nutrient-trapping properties, take their place. Furthermore, the carbon is buffered from rain by large amounts of crushed pottery mixed all throughout the soil. Some argue that terra preta patches are the remnants of Amazonian waste dumps and so happened by accident; the potsherds are just the broken leftovers of everyday items. Others argue that there’s just too much of it mixed in with the soil—that pre-Colombian Amazonians deliberately made pottery for the sole purpose of smashing it and using it to make farmable plots.
The final answer to this question depends on just how much terra preta there is, and for the moment we just don’t know. Estimates have varied between 6,300 square kilometers spread over the whole Amazon (in which case it’s reasonable to think its creation was an accident) to one hundred times that—in other words, the size of the entire Ukraine, the country with the fifth largest amount of arable land in the world.
Even if we accept that this question is nowhere near answered, though, we can understand something about pre-Colombian Amazonian life from terra preta. With one notable exception (the ancient Jōmon culture of Japan), pottery is only known in settled cultures: heavy and fragile, it’s just too much trouble for hunter-gatherers to carry around. Modern Amazonians aren’t settled in the present day, so the obvious inference is that their culture must have been settled the past and then changed for some reason.
There’s even another clue in a similar vein. An aristocracy, or even a simple chiefdom, depends on a surplus of goods, usually food (land aristocracies like “The Duke of So-and-So” are as they are because the land is worked by farmers). Permanent social hierarchies don’t develop until agriculture develops. Hunter-gatherer cultures or slash-and-burn agriculturalists are invariably egalitarian—there is no surplus of anything for a chief to hoard, and in the event someone starts trying to impose on the rest of his group, his prospective subjects can just walk away. Within limits any bit of land is as good as any other for gathering food or a new slash-and-burn plot.
But some Amazonian tribes do have aristocracies. The Yurimagua were known to have a “high king” of sorts into the 1700s, a time when the tribe was living at a hunter-gatherer level. Even in the modern day many tribes (for example, the Kuikuro) have complex social hierarchies, which is unique for societies that don’t engage in settled farming.
We even have evidence of one relatively advanced Amazonian culture, which was at the mouth of the river on Marajó Island. While not up to the standards of the Aztecs or Inca, the Marajoara culture raised funeral mounds full of pottery and built canals and weirs to raise fish.
So what happened? There’s still argument about when the Marajoara culture disappeared, with some saying before Columbus about 1400 AD and some saying as late as 1650. If the latter, it’s not unreasonable to assume that it gave way under the same pressure as destroyed the similarly unencountered central North American civilizations: the introduction of several European diseases to which Native Americans had no resistance.
The gap of 95 years between de Orellana and Teixeira is what makes this a workable hypothesis. If Europeans accidentally introduced smallpox, measles, and others to the central Amazon basin, they had time to repeatedly devastate the population to the point that they’d be reduced to hunter-gathering. The passing decades would have given enough time for the non-durable products of their civilization to decay and the passing generations would have blurred the Amazonians’ memory of their ancestors. Come the explorations of Europeans from 1650 onwards, there’d be little clue that Amazonians had lived any differently.
There are now increasing signs that this theory is correct. Starting in the late 80s and much more so in just the last few years a mixture of forest clearing and satellite surveying in the upper reaches of the Amazon have found evidence of a fairly advanced native culture in the uplands between stretches of Amazonian flood plain. Gaspar de Carvajal’s account is not the only evidence any more.
Medicine is tricky work because the human body is so complex that it’s resistant to traditional science. Ever since René Descartes systems are broken down into their individual components, studied, and then when those components are understood the capacities of the larger group are understood as well. But biological systems often interact subtly, and in non-obvious ways.
This means that for every medical discovery that was made systematically there’s one that was heavily dependent on luck. The most famous example is penicillin, which was discovered after a chance observation by Alexander Fleming. Far less well-known is the story of the SS John Harvey and its effect on cancer research.
The John Harvey was an American Liberty Ship, assigned to a cargo run during the invasion of Italy in World War II. On her final voyage she was carrying a secret load of chemical weapons. All the combatants in WWII swore off chemical weapons (even Hitler: he’d been gassed and temporarily blinded as a military runner in the last month of World War I, and was extremely leery of that kind of weapon), but all hedged their bets. Franklin Roosevelt had chemical weapons shipped to the Mediterranean theatre beginning in August of 1943, just in case they were needed, and so in November of that year the John Harvey found itself in the port of Bari, Italy with a hold containing 60,000 kilograms of mustard gas in shells.
As its mission was secret, its captain couldn’t ask port authorities for priority; as Bari was one of the major ports supplying the Allies during the invasion of the Italian mainland, the ship was stuck in line for some time waiting for its cargo to be offloaded. It never happened, as on December 2nd Bari was struck by a major German air raid (so big that it shut down the port for more than two months; sixteen ships were sunk and it was dubbed “Little Pearl Harbor” at the time). The John Harvey was not hit, but it was showered with flaming debris, caught fire and blew up. Its cargo was unleashed on its crew and the defenseless town.
Every member of the Harvey‘s complement who knew what was in the hold was killed, so rescuers dealing with the casualties had no idea what they were up against. Mustard gas (which is actually an oily liquid which vaporizes very easily) needs to be countered before contact with a very specific treatment or, preferably, the entire area needs to be washed down with bleach or a mixture of substances named DS2. Not realizing that they needed to do this, many people succumbed to the attack while trying to rescue the first victims. For example, the HMS Bicester fished 30 casualties out of the water but, being damaged itself, was towed to nearby Taranto for repairs. By the time it got there many of its crew were suffering from chemical burns and blindness.
By the time mustard gas causes symptoms, it’s too late to do anything about it, but even at that point the medical personnel couldn’t figure out what was going on—partly due to the secrecy covering the cargo and partly because few doctors had seen mustard gas in action since 1918. When someone was pulled from the water he was often covered in oily mustard gas, only to be dismissed because the substance was assumed to be diesel or gasoline dumped into the bay from ships split open by the air raid. Victims of a dunking were often suffering from exposure too, and so were wrapped in blankets that trapped the oil next to their skin.
Mustard gas does have a garlicky smell, though, and both the smell and the developing burns over the next few hours (and days, as still no-one knew to clean up the lingering chemicals) led medics to suspect some sort of chemical. An expert on chemical warfare, Lieutenant-Colonel Stewart Francis Alexander, was sent by the Deputy Surgeon General of the US Army to figure out what was going wrong. Lt.-Col. Alexander ran every test he could think of and eventually pinned down mustard gas as the culprit; he also used the technique pioneered by John Snow of mapping the location of casualties to pinpoint the cause and determined that the John Harvey was the centre.
War-time secrecy clamped down on the accident reports, but too many witnesses had seen what was going on and the US Army eventually admitted a few months later that the John Harvey had been carrying mustard gas. Nevertheless, the incident got lost in the tumult of 1944 and documents pertaining to it weren’t declassified until 1959.
In all there were 628 known casualties, including 86 deaths, but there were probably many more. As well as the oily residue on the waters of the port, a cloud of vaporized mustard gas had drifted across the town; civilian Barieses had scattered into the country after the raid and would have had to deal with the slow-burning chemical on their own, far away from where anyone could take official notice.
In the midst of the disaster, though, Lt.-Col. Alexander made an interesting discovery because he had had to do so many tests to narrow the field of suspects down: mustard gas kills white blood cells. Among their many other properties white blood cells divide quickly, which got the Lieutenant-Colonel to thinking about cancer cells, which are also noted for their quick growth. As part of his report, he suggested that someone might want to look into mustard gas, or hopefully something related that was a little less fearsome, as an anti-cancer drug.
As it happened, in 1942 Louis Goodman and Alfred Gilman of Yale University had received a commission from the US Army to study the underlying chemistry of mustard gas’ effect on animal cells. They’d noticed the white blood cell-killing effect as well, but this too hadn’t got out to the medical world at large due to military secrecy. They’d idly considered the medical implications of their discovery, but then along came Alexander’s report to light a fire under them. They tested mechlorethamine, a derivative of mustard gas, on animals and then humans and found that it was effective as a treatment for lymphoma, including Hodgkin’s Lymphoma and acute lymphoblastic leukemia. The latter was once a common killer of children, with a mortality rate of 100%; mustard gas-derivatives now make it very curable.
Mustard gas kills rapidly dividing cells by preventing DNA molecules from uncoiling, a necessary step for cell division. In 1943 DNA hadn’t even been discovered so the chemical’s effect was a mystery, but once James D. Watson and Francis Crick correctly interpreted Photo 51 in 1953 it was just a matter of time before the underlying chemistry was understood and other substances that worked on cancer cells the same way could be developed. Mechlorethamine was just the first many alkylating antineoplastic agents, a major class of chemotherapy drugs. If you know someone who’s survived a bout of cancer, or if you’ve you’ve survived it yourself, that victory can quite possibly be traced back to the only known release of chemical weapons in the European Theatre of WWII, and one of the worst disasters to strike southern Italy in the 20th century.
The largest oil spill of all time is a special case, the deliberate opening of the valves at Kuwait’s Sea Island terminal by the Iraqi army during the First Gulf War. Nearly 10,000,000 barrels of oil ended up in the Persian Gulf before American air strikes closed the pipelines in January of 1991.
If one sticks to accidents, though, most of the famous spills—for example, the Amoco Cadiz or the Exxon Valdez—don’t really approach the volume of the #1 accident of all time (the Deepwater Horizon‘s ultimate output is unknown as of this writing, but has only a remote chance of hitting the record). Almost all the big spills happened because of oil tankers and their enormous size, but surprisingly the record-holder was on land, in the California oil fields.
California is not generally thought of as an oil-producing state, but between the opening of commercial oil production in Pennsylvania that peaked in the 1890s and the commercialization of the enormous East Texas oil field in the 1930s, Southern California was the most important source of oil in the United States. Starting in the 1880s large amounts were extracted in the Los Angeles basin (urban LA still produces a noticeable amount of oil), but by the turn of the century the big action was out in the semi-desert of the southern San Joaquin Valley, near Bakersfield.
Lakeview Number One was drilled over the course of fifteen months by the Lakeview Oil Company, partnered with Union Oil of California (later Unocal and now part of Chevron) beginning in 1909. Charles Lewis Woods was the man tapped to do the work, and it’s become quite difficult to determine the exact events leading up to the oil spill. In 1910 America was in the habit of semi-mythologizing the people responsible for the US’s rapid economic development, whether it was giants like Thomas Edison, fictional personifications like Paul Bunyan, or minnows like Charles Woods. Edison was at least important enough that he left a trail of contemporary reports that can be turned into biography. Woods has little left besides a raft of contradictory legends.
That said, the basic story is that Woods had earned the nickname “Dry Hole Charlie” for his lack of success in the oil drilling business. Looking deeper suggests that this is because his specialty was exploratory drilling—he didn’t bother with places where people already knew oil could be found, but rather spent his time trying to open new fields. A second legend is that he was actually told to close up the Lakeview Number One as a failure, and that he ignored orders to drill for one more day, the evening of that day being when he hit oil. That seems a little too “just so” to be true, but the story is part of Woods’ legacy.
So, whether or not he was supposed to be drilling any more, Woods reached 740 meters down and the oil started flowing. The California oil fields are usually under pressure, so standard practice at the time, once the layers of impermeable rock above a pocket of oil had been punctured, was to let the pressure pump the well for you. Rather than the stereotypical horse head pulling the oil to the surface, the oil would spurt out of the ground like a geyser — a “blowout” which produces a “gusher” — at which point it would be capped, and the pressure used to push the oil into nearby storage containers. Unfortunately, the Lakeview Gusher was such a monster that the capping step was a problem.
Later analysis would show that Woods’ hole had actually missed the pocket of oil it was tapping by more than a meter, but that the pressure within was so high that it actually fractured the last stretch of solid rock on its own. Initially the Lakeview Gusher flowed at a rate of about 15,000 barrels per day, but as it eroded its well shaft the rate increased. At its peak, it was firing anywhere from 60,000 to 100,000 (some estimates are as high as 125,000) barrels of oil up to two hundred feet in the air every 24 hours. Even worse, its oil was what’s called “low ratio”—it wasn’t pure, but was mixed up with sand. Every “barrel” was actually six to eight cubic meters of muddy goulash, raining down on the landscape for fifty or more kilometers depending on how hard the wind was blowing.
At the well-head the pressure was so high that the first attempt to build a cap (at the time, a heavy box of timber beams) was literally blown to pieces. Eventually the oil company gave up trying to cap the gusher and settled on a second strategy, which had been used elsewhere but not to the same extent. Just like when a river floods, workers were hired to build an embankment of timbers and sandbags around the gusher. The local terrain required them to build a wall 150 feet wide at one end of a nearby gully and 250 feet at the other. It was, in places, 75 feet above the edge of the folds in the ground. In total, it could hold 16 million barrels of oil (or, in more commonly understood units, 672 million gallons, or 2.5 billion liters). Though the oil lake never quite reached the rim, at times the reservoir was up to 30 meters deep. The well was in the middle of this, so workers had to paddle out to it in small boats. This undoubtedly would have broken any number of health-and-safety regulations, if California had had any in 1910.
A “semi-cap” was eventually placed over the wellhead to at least keep the plume of oil in its gully and stop it from spewing all over the landscape. Some idea of the power of the gusher can be obtained by understanding that this new box hovered about ten feet in the air despite weighing several tons. To keep it from being propelled off into the middle distance somewhere, it had to be anchored to the ground by steel guy wires, which were in constant tension as the oil and muck roared and played against the underside of what was essentially a giant timber raft. Eventually the growing weight of the oil lake (and its growing depth) above the wellhead brought the tip of the gusher down to man height.
Most large gushers give out after a short while; the famous Lucas Gusher in Texas’ Spindletop oil field was as voluminous as Lakeview One, but dwindled away to much lower levels within a few months. Lakeview kept going at roughly the same volume, diminishing slowly to 60,000 barrels per day, until September 10th, 1911 when the bottom of the hole it had been eroding collapsed and filled in the well (some sources say September 9th). For 544 days the Lakeview Gusher had produced a significant fraction of all the world’s oil—to the point that, even with something like 40% of its production being wasted by being absorbed into the soil or flying all around the landscape at the top of an uncapped plume, what Union Oil could recover drove down the world oil price by 70% (from roughly $1 per barrel to 30¢ per barrel).
Gushers are much less common these days, as the blowout preventer was invented in 1924 and they’re attached to most modern wells. A gusher in Qum, Iran in 1954 was one of the last major ones on land, though it’s worth pointing out that the recent Deepwater Horizon accident seems to have been a blowout as well (and its gusher, somewhat amazingly given the extent of the oil spill, is probably no more than half as big as the Lakeview Gusher at its peak).
In Bakersfield’s semi-desert landscape, there are still remnants of the sandbags that surrounded the gusher, and the sandy ground still contains enough oil residue that it sticks together in cake-like layers. A plaque dedicated to the event is found near the now dry hole. Legend has it that Dry Hole Charlie then went on to live up to his nickname for the rest of his career.
(A remarkable set of historical and current photos of the Lakeview Gusher can be found here on Flickr).