It may sound like the tag line for a not very engaging fantasy film, but read on. Some years ago I journeyed from New York to Ohio, by road, with my great friend Allan Lang, a noted paleontologist, meteorite collector and founder of the Langheinrich Fossil Preserve. Our destination was a private, working quarry in Sylvania, Ohio.

During the Middle Devonian age (that’s about 390 million years ago to you Creationists) the area around present-day Toledo was underwater. The remains of untold billions of tiny sea creatures today form a silica-rich shale that preserves, in incredible detail, the fossilized hard parts of long-vanished aquatic creatures. The Sylvania quarries are famous for their trilobite fossils, in particular the spectacular jointed marine arthropod Phacops rana. Something about the silica preserves the trilobites’ exoskeletons in exquisite microscopic detail—a rich and shiny brown/black pasted against the dusty gray shale matrix. Trilobites did not have soft lenses for eyes, as we do. Their eyes were made of calcite, and they are the only creatures in the history of life as we know it, to have gazed upon their own world through crystalline lenses.

Dr. Richard Fortey, author of Trilobite: Eyewitness to Evolution explains:

“Look into a crystal of Iceland spar and you can see the secret of the trilobite’s vision. For trilobites used clear calcite crystals to make lenses in their eyes; in this they were unique . . . trilobites alone have used the transparency of calcite as a means of transmitting light. The trilobite eye is in continuity with the rest of its shelly armour. It sites on top of the cheek of the animal, an en suite eyeglass, tough as clamshell.”

Quarrying is big business in Sylvania, but fossils are not officially part of the local commerce. Unfortunately for people like me, the quarries are primarily interested in producing thousands of tons of aggregates for road building. Giant cranes and tractors munch up the layers of rock, along with all those beautifully preserved trilobites. For various reasons including safety, insurance, and the demands of heavy duty industrial production, the quarries are off-limits to fossil enthusiasts. You can’t really blame the owners. If a star-struck fossil fanatic falls from the top of a hundred-foot knife-sharp shale ridge, it kinda puts a damper on the work flow.

Despite numerous obstacles, and after some years of sustained effort, Allan managed to get a special dispensation that allowed a small band of us hardcore fossil nuts access to the undisturbed quarry face. What a spectacular treat it was! Only a handful of people have ever been able to walk up to that wall of fossil-rich rock and dig through it for mementos of an ancient sea.

During our first two days in the field it rained continuously. On the third the sun came out and—with rays reflecting endlessly from the light colored rock at the bottom of an open pit—it became unbearably hot. I was doing pick axe duty, smashing up big blocks of shale looking for trilobites, or “bugs” as the pros call them. I got a little grumpy. I hit one oversize block a little too hard, at a weird angle, and it shattered. To my horror, the broken faces exposed a superb and brilliantly preserved trilobite, its head dismembered by my axe. Part of it was on this block of stone, part of it on that one, and . . . so on.

Leon Theissen, one of the world top fossil preparators (a specialist who cleans fossils, removes extraneous rock, and sometimes carries out repairs) happened to be on the team. “Don’t worry Geoff,” he said with a confident and reassuring smile. “I can probably put it back together for you.”

To my considerable amazement, he did. Leon, Allan, and Zarko Ljuboja—another highly talented prep artist—had combined forces, repaired this marvelous fossil, and presented it to my on my birthday. I call it “Frankenstein’s trilobite” and it is indeed a prized possession. A reminder both that even the most horribly damaged things can sometimes be fixed, and that it’s okay to take it easy with the pick axe. Even when grumpy.

All photographs by Geoffrey Notkin © Geoffrey Notkin. All rights reserved. No reproduction without written permission.

I do not have any children of my own, and the chances of me generating any are about the same as the human race developing a faster-than-light starship drive in my lifetime. That fact that I chose not to procreate doesn’t mean I don’t care about the younger generation.

When I was about six years old, a jolly and friendly geologist, built like a bull and named Wally Robbins, took me under his wing during one of our family vacations to the US. He gave me my first trilobite fossil (I went on to find some spectacular specimens in later life, but I still have that first little Elrathia kingii and still treasure it) and some lovely rocks and minerals. I watched him walk the beaches and rivers of New England at low tide, collecting rocks. His wife joked that the only exercise he ever got was when he bent down to pick up something of geological interest.

Were it not for Wally, I may never have followed my path into the world of scientific adventure and exploration. I remember how inspiring he was to me and—in my own small way—I try to pass it along.

Yesterday, I had the very great honor of participating in the Lunar and Planetary Lab‘s Apollo 11 40th Anniversary celebration. My staff and I set up a display of rare and unusual meteorites, as did several of our professional colleagues. I had the unexpected pleasure of meeting astronomer Thomas Bopp, co-discoverer of Comet Hale-Bopp “the most widely observed comet of the twentieth century.” I also got to spend time with John Terry White, an aerospace expert and president of White Eagle Aerospace, and a most charming and fascinating man. Scott Schneewels astounded me with his collection of genuine Apollo mission historic artifacts, including a control panel from an actual Lunar Module, hand-woven memory from one of the command modules, and tools designed to collect and transport moon rocks.

I was afraid that all of this “science stuff” might be a little dry for the scores of kids who were in attendance, and who were born more than thirty years after the Eagle touched down at Tranquility Base. There was no chance of that. We gave away small meteorites with identification cards, all day long, to wide-eyed children who were enthralled to hold something from outer space. And we distributed free DVDs, magazines, and postcards about meteorites and answered a million questions: “How does the Earth know there isn’t life on other planets?” (Well, that was a tough one)

If one of those kids decides to devote his or her life to aerospace, or meteoritics, or some other important scientific discipline, then we really are leaving something worthwhile behind. With budget cuts in research and education resulting in tragedies like the wonderful Flandrau Planetarium remaining closed for five days out of every seven, those of us who care about the future must take up the slack in other ways.

Photographs by Leigh Anne DelRay, Callisto Images © Leigh Anne DelRay, all rights reserved.

Ten years ago today, I had just embarked upon one of the grandest adventure expeditions of my life. On July 6, 1999 I was staying in Room 639 of the Krasnojarsk Hotel, in the capital of Siberia, faced with a most difficult situation.

A few months earlier the eminent adventurer, science writer, and astronomer, Professor Roy Gallant invited me to join him on the first-ever international expedition to the Popigai Crater at the northern edge of Siberia, on the Tamyr Peninsula. This vast meteorite crater, approximately 100 km in diameter was formed about 35 million years ago by the cataclysmic impact of a large chunk of a stony asteroid. During World War II and on into the 1960s, the Russians mined great quantities of industrial grade diamonds from the crater, and those diamonds were formed by the heat and pressure of the meteorite impact.

Planning the expedition was a logistical nightmare and would take Roy and his staff three years. Even though mining had ceased at the crater, it was still a top secret area and before we could travel there we had to be “invited” by the KGB. That was the easy part. There are no roads, trails or airstrips up there, hundreds of miles north of the Arctic Circle, so we were to be airlifted by ex-military helicopters. Airlifted right into the crater itself. And that’s where the trouble started. Although we held all the proper paperwork, and had paid all the proper gratuities, it seems we somehow neglected to grease the palm of one local province director. He was quite irritated by that and started leaning on the helicopter outfit to make trouble for us. Everyone on the eighteen-person team—nine Russians and nine Americans—realized that once we were dropped off at the edge of the world, the helicopter team might not come back to get us. There would be no hiking out from that spot but we voted unanimously to go anyway.

Before departing from the tiny, forsaken outpost of Khatanga, our team was treated to a fine lunch of red caviar and reindeer burgers, washed down with numerous glasses of exquisite Russian vodka, at the most northerly bar in the world. The team member seated next to me didn’t drink alcohol and—despite my insistent whispering in his ear: “It’s a big insult to our hosts if you don’t drink the vodka—he refused. My father’s parents were White Russians, so I felt it my honorable duty to drink his vodka as well, discretely swapping my empty glass for his, repeatedly. So, by the time we lifted off in the loud and rickety Mi-8 chopper, I was more than a little tipsy.

Our bright orange aircraft had no regular seats, just a long wooden bench on one side of the cabin. The bench was full, so I flopped down on our pile of luggage and equipment. The first officer quickly appeared and told me I couldn’t sit there. “But there’s nowhere else to sit,” I protested.

“Pliz leesten,” he insisted. “Begs are on top ov cargo door, you see? Sometimz in flight cargo door open by accident end all begs go fshhhoot, to ground. End you too.” So I got up without further complaint and eventually talked my way into standing at the rear of the flight deck.

The Popigai Crater is so large that you cannot really tell you are inside it. There is a sense of being below ground level, and there are mountains of debris many miles away, but any understanding of the scale of the impact feature is difficult to grasp consciously. We spent nine days inside the crater, camping on two separate islands perched in the middle of the chilly Rassokha River that runs through it. We hiked, and we and traveled by raft. Our Russian comrades used just the one chainsaw to build a mess tent, seats, benches, a radio mast, and a cargo raft from the surrounding pine trees.

We weren’t looking for meteorites. The original impactor was rich in iron, and eroded away during the long millennia since the crater-forming event. But the meteorite’s signature was everywhere, in the form of impactites—terrestrial rocks that have been shocked, melted or otherwise altered by the effects of meteorite bombardment.

We also found mosquitos by the thousands. During the brief Arctic summer the sun never sets, the top few inches of tundra thaw out, and terrifying hordes of large Siberian insects appear to prey on reindeer and, in 1999, us. Despite the hardships, or perhaps because of them, it was an extraordinary adventure. I got to cross the Arctic Circle for the first time in my life, hike through the screaming wilderness with eminent Russian geologists, see the midnight sun, and spend more than a week inside one of the largest impact sites on earth. We even found some tiny diamonds, frozen forever inside melted rock.

I fell in love with Russia and will return one day, and here is the memory that sticks with me most vividly: On one of our last nights, after an arduous 14-hour voyage on river rafts, I stood with a group of Russian scientists on an unknown sandy island at 4 am, drinking vodka out of tin cups. With the assistance of our long-suffering translator, Katya, we began exchanging jokes, communicating properly, at last, through the universal language of humor. Several of those men were important researchers during the Cold War era and were denied the luxury of international travel. They had never met an American in real life, and the discovery that surprised and astonished them the most was that we—we Americans—had a sense of humor. What was the Politburo telling them about us?

We laughed long into what should have been the night (the sun never sets in July in Siberia), clinking tin cups together in the wind and understanding, at long last, that we Russians and Americans were not so very different after all.