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Chubb Crater - Part 1 of 12
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- Subject: Chubb Crater - Part 1 of 12
- From: Bernd Pauli HD <bernd.pauli@lehrer1.rz.uni-karlsruhe.de>
- Date: Mon, 04 Oct 1999 23:06:21 +0200
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Hello Listees, Listoids, Addicts, and Lurkers!
As so often before, the list seems to have quieted down a bit.
Apparently, everyone needs a break. To bridge this dearth, I have
scanned the report on Chubb crater found in one of the magazines that
Piper Hollier kindly sent me. Sit back, relax, and enjoy the exciting
ambiance that emanates from the adventures of those early pioneers of
crater exploration.
The National Geographic Magazine, Vol. C1, No.1, January, 1952
Solving the Riddle of Chubb Crater
By V. Ben Meen - Director, Royal Ontario Museum of Geology and
Mineralogy
With Illustrations by National Geographic Photographer Richard H.
Stewart
In all the vast and lonely reaches of the Far North I doubt that there
was a more disappointed man that Friday evening. My calendar said
August 17.
Time had all but run out for the expedition dispatched by the National
Geographic Society and the Royal Ontario Museum of Toronto to the
subarctic tip of Quebec Province to solve the mystery of Chubb Crater.
Was this gigantic hole the throat of some long-extinct volcano? Was it
formed as a sinkhole after the retreat of a prehistoric glacier? Or, as
I thought most likely, was it blasted in the rock by the impact of a
giant meteor?
For a month now, seeking the answer, the six of us had been working our
hearts out against time, laboring in rain, cold, snow, and the
everlasting wind that sweeps this desolate land of eerie stillness.
Three Days Left and Still No Proof
But Chubb Crater stubbornly held on to its secret. We still lacked
positive evidence as to the origin of this enormous scar gouged out of
the granite-covered barrens.
The amphibian plane that would fly the expedition back to civilization
was due at camp in less than three days. Were we fated to return and
report the riddle still unsolved, leaving the world still to wonder how
the great crater came into being?
As leader of the expedition I felt an especially keen sense of
frustration. True, we would not be going back empty-handed. The days of
driving effort had produced a goodly store of scientific data on the
craterland area, as well as material for further laboratory study. But
the big prize would be lacking.
Unpleasant as this prospect was, my responsibilities gave me no choice
but to face up to it, and for good reasons.
The weather was our implacable foe. We had seen the last snows of the
Arctic's 1950-51 winter when we arrived at the crater. Now, only four
weeks later, the first snows of the 1951-52 season were already upon us,
and General Winter strikes swiftly here. A few degrees' drop in
temperature would put ice in the lake that offered the only landing
place for our amphibian.
Safety of the expedition's members was paramount. Once ice began forming
on the lake, our amphibian would be prevented from landing. On foot it
would be a rough 60-mile trek to Wakeham Bay in the teeth of
increasingly severe weather, and I doubted we could pack enough supplies
to cover that distance. I felt we had to get out by air in a few days or
hole up to await rescue.
Saturday's program thus seemed clean-cut: pack equipment and specimens;
get ready to strike camp. Up on the crater rim the men still working
against time for a key to Chubb's riddle could continue the search until
midday, but then it must end. They would need most of the afternoon to
negotiate the tortuous way back to camp, burdened with their heavy gear.
Then on Monday the amphibian would come to lift us out of the cold and
wet and speed us back to civilization. After all, it was summer there,
and one could luxuriate in a bath, wear light clothes, and forget the
lashing winds.
Of course, I would still cling to my theory on the origin of this
Gargantuan punch bowl in the wastelands, but theories are not facts.
Science demands conclusive proof. I believed I knew what had not
caused the crater, yet lacked acceptable evidence as to what had.
Best wishes and good night,
Bernd
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