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Wikimedia Commons // Public Domain

6 Beautiful Photos of Impact Craters—Where Space Rocks Met Earth

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Wikimedia Commons // Public Domain

There are 188 confirmed impact sites on Earth that we know about. There are thousands on the Moon. This isn't because the Earth is lucky but because weather, water, and plate tectonics have erased much of the evidence of cratering on Earth. If for no other reason, then, the ones we know about are exciting indeed, and can tell us an awful lot about the early solar system. Here are six notable impact craters from around the world.


Of all the craters in the world, this is the one astronauts might have the easiest time spotting from space. (Meanwhile, you can see it above.) The next time you're on the International Space Station, keep a close eye on Quebec, where this crater was formed during the Triassic. The crater has a concentric structure which was caused by shock waves from the impact.


About 66 million years ago, a 6-mile fireball slammed into the Earth, creating a 110-mile-diameter crater. Today, Chicxulub is buried beneath the Yucatan Peninsula. It's not the biggest impact crater in North America, but we owe this one a lot for ridding the world of dinosaurs, which made room for mammals like us.



El’gygytgyn might sound like the name of Cthulhu's kid brother, but it's actually an impact crater on the Chukotka peninsula in Russia. An asteroid 1 kilometer across smacked the Earth around 3.6 million years ago, creating a crater, and eventually, a giant lake within it. Paleoclimatologists love this thing because it's located in the Arctic, where climate data is hard to come by. Lake sediment, on the other hand, is rich with climate data, meaning that scientists can use the crater lake to study the climate of Earth's distant past, which may enlighten us about the future.


Wikimedia Commons // Public Domain

Lake Bosumtwi in the Ashanti Region of Ghana is the result of an impact crater formed during the Pleistocene. The crater has not been forthcoming with information; it is surrounded by a dense rainforest that conceals shock features caused by impact. Scientists have drilled into the lake floor to get the shock data necessary to work out what happened there a million years ago (aside from a giant rock crashing into the Earth, that is).


Wikimedia Commons // Public Domain

Here's all you really need to know about the Popigai crater: 35 million years ago, a fireball (technically a bolide, or extremely bright meteor) between 3 and 5 miles in diameter crashed into an area in Siberia that was rich with graphite. So great was the impact that it instantly turned that graphite into diamonds. What kind of conditions could cause such a thing? According to, "A hypervelocity impact of a 5-kilometer-wide object would produce an energy burst equivalent to millions of nuclear weapons and temperatures hotter than the Sun's surface."


Wikimedia Commons // Public Domain

The next time you're in western Australia, you can visit Wolfe Creek Crater at the Wolfe Creek Meteorite Crater National Park. The half-mile-diameter crater was discovered by Europeans in 1947 during an overflight, though the Aborigines long knew about it, calling it Kandimalal and explaining it as the spot from which a rainbow snake emerged. It is the second-largest crater in the world to have left behind meteorite fragments.

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Big Questions
Just How Hot Is Lava?
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Like the bubbling cheese of a pizza consumed too quickly, lava has been anointed as one of the most scorching substances on Earth. But just how hot is lava? How quickly could it consume your flesh and destroy everything in its path?

You may already know that lava is actually molten rock that oozes or spurts out of volcanoes because of the extreme temperatures found miles deep in the Earth. As the rocks melt, they begin to rise toward the surface. (Lava is typically referred to as magma until it reaches the surface.) As you can imagine, the heat that's needed to melt rock is pretty staggering. Cooler lava—relatively speaking—could be around 570°F, about the same as the inside of your typical pizza oven. On the extreme side, volcanoes can produce lava in excess of 2120°F, according to the United States Geological Survey.

Why is there so much variation? Different environments produce different chemical compositions and minerals that can affect temperature. Lava found in Hawaii from basalt rock, for example, tends to be on the hotter side, while minerals like the ones found near the Pacific Northwest's Mt. Saint Helens could be a few hundred degrees cooler.

After lava has erupted and its temperature begins to lower, it will eventually return to solid rock. Hotter lava flows more quickly—perhaps several feet per minute—and then slows as it cools, sometimes traveling only a couple of feet in a day.

Because moving lava takes its sweet time getting anywhere, there's not much danger. But what if you did, in some tremendously unfortunate circumstance, get exposed to lava—say, by being thrown into a lava pit like a villain in a fantasy film? First, you're unlikely to sink rapidly into it. Lava is three times as dense as water and won't simply move out of the way as quickly. You would, however, burn like a S'more at those temperatures, even if you wouldn't quite melt. It's more likely the radiant heat would singe you before you even made contact with the hypothetical lava lake, or that you'd burst into flames on contact.

Because lava is so super-heated, you might also wonder how researchers are even able to measure its temperature and answer the burning question—how hot is lava, exactly—without destroying their instrumentation. Using a meat thermometer isn't the right move, since the mercury inside would boil while the glass would shatter. Instead, volcanologists use thermocouples, or two wires joined to the same electrical source. A user can measure the resistance of the electricity at the tip and convert it to a readable temperature. Thermocouples are made from ceramic and stainless steel, and both have melting points higher than even the hottest lava. We still don't recommend using them on pizza.

Have you got a Big Question you'd like us to answer? If so, let us know by emailing us at

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J. P. Oleson
Time Has Only Strengthened These Ancient Roman Walls
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J. P. Oleson

Any seaside structure will erode and eventually crumble into the water below. That’s how things work. Or at least that’s how they usually work. Scientists say the ancient Romans figured out a way to build seawalls that actually got tougher over time. They published their findings in the journal American Mineralogist.

The walls’ astonishing durability is not, itself, news. In the 1st century CE, Pliny the Elder described the phenomenon in his Naturalis Historia, writing that the swell-battered concrete walls became "a single stone mass, impregnable to the waves and every day stronger."

We know that Roman concrete involved a mixture of volcanic ash, lime, seawater, and chunks of volcanic rock—and that combining these ingredients produces a pozzolanic chemical reaction that makes the concrete stronger. But modern cement involves a similar reaction, and our seawalls fall apart like anything else beneath the ocean's corrosive battering ram.

Something else was clearly going on.

To find out what it was, geologists examined samples from walls built between 55 BCE and 115 CE. They used high-powered microscopes and X-ray scanners to peer into the concrete's basic structure, and a technique called raman spectroscopy to identify its ingredients.

Microscope image of crystals in ancient Roman concrete.
Courtesy of Marie Jackson

Their results showed that the pozzolanic reaction during the walls' creation was just one stage of the concrete toughening process. The real magic happened once the walls were built, as they sat soaking in the sea. The saltwater did indeed corrode elements of the concrete—but in doing so, it made room for new crystals to grow, creating even stronger bonds.

"We're looking at a system that's contrary to everything one would not want in cement-based concrete," lead author Marie Jackson, of the University of Utah, said in a statement. It's one "that thrives in open chemical exchange with seawater."

The goal now, Jackson says, is to reproduce the precise recipe and toughen our own building materials. But that might be harder than it sounds.

"Romans were fortunate in the type of rock they had to work with," she says. "They observed that volcanic ash grew cements to produce the tuff. We don't have those rocks in a lot of the world, so there would have to be substitutions made."

We still have a lot to learn from the ancient walls and their long-gone architects. Jackson and her colleagues will continue to pore through Roman texts and the concrete itself, looking for clues to its extraordinary strength.

"The Romans were concerned with this," Jackson says. "If we're going to build in the sea, we should be concerned with it too."


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