This photograph from the Museum’s Tyrrell collection shows the aftermath of one of Australia’s worst rail disasters of the 19th century.
The accident occurred in the early hours of the morning of 25 January 1885 about five kms south of Cootamundra. The train had left from Albury and was fully laden with mail and passengers, many of them travelling to Sydney to attend the Randwick races the following day.
It had been raining heavily for several days throughout southern NSW and the embankment supporting the rail line over Salt Clay Creek had collapsed and washed away, leaving only the unsupported tracks. As the Australian Town and Country Journal reported,
This left a very large gap, about 50yd wide and about 9ft deep, and into it the mail train dashed.
Attempts to warn the driver had proved futile. Eight people died and 20 were seriously injured. The Kerang Times and Swan Hill Gazette reported the gruesome discovery of a head “stuffed under the cushions”.
The North Eastern Ensign described the aftermath:
The spot at which the accident occurred is situated so far in the bush from any road that it was found to be a very arduous task to bring proper aid to the sufferers, or to remove them to Cootamundra and other places, where preparations could be made to receive them. These circumstances rendered an otherwise terrible catastrophe still more heart rending, as the poor victims of the smash were obliged to lie for hours under the pitiless rain which seems to have fallen in abnormal volume.
It is intriguing how a photographer from the Henry King studio in Sydney came to be on the scene at what appears to be a very early stage of the salvage operation. Perhaps he was on the train.
The fate of the locomotive is unknown but was said to have fractured its boiler in the accident. It appears to be No 31 and is one of the G23 Class, a 2-4-0 passenger type engine used by the NSW Government Railways.
Appropriately this photo features on the cover of a new publication from the Powerhouse Museum, All is Not Lost: the Collection Recovery Book, which gives advice on how to salvage treasured items affected by disaster.
A hadrosaur Skeleton, Field Museum (Credit: Lisa Andres)
by Paul Rodgers.
Dinosaurs would be walking the Earth today if it weren’t for a “colossal” piece of bad luck.
Had the asteroid that brought their reign to an end struck at “a more convenient time” they could well have survived the cataclysm, according to new research.
And that in turn would mean no humans.
“If dinosaurs didn’t go extinct, then mammals would have never had their opportunity to blossom.
So if it wasn’t for that asteroid, then humans probably wouldn’t be here. It’s as simple as that,” said Dr Stephen Brusatte, a palaeontologist at Edinburgh University’s school of geosciences.
“Not only did a giant asteroid strike, but it happened at the worst possible time, when their ecosystems were vulnerable,” said Dr Brusatte, a co-discoverer of the Pinnochio rex tyrannosaur (Qianzhousaurus sinensis) announced in May.
“It was a perfect storm of events, when dinosaurs were at their most vulnerable.”
A triceratops at the American Museum of Natural History (Credit: Wikipedia)
The arrival of the Chicxulub bolide (comet or giant meteorite) 66 million years ago, in what is now Mexico’s Yucatan Peninsula, left a crater 20km deep and 180km in diameter and caused a global catastrophe including firestorms, tsunamis, and earthquakes.
The 10km wide rock released enough dust, ash, and aerosols into the air to create a global “impact winter” that lasted for a decade.
The Cretaceous-Paleogene extinction event (formerly known as the Cretaceous-Tertiary) is thought to have killed three quarters of the earth’s species.
At particular risk were large creatures – the dinosaurs – that depended on equally large food intake.
Only those dinosaurs that could fly survived, eventually evolving into today’s birds.
For the first time since the accident in 1976, workers at Hanford Nuclear Reservation in Washington are planning to clean out the room where chemicals exploded in Harold McCluskey’s face, showering him with radiation 500 times the occupational limit and embedding radioactive americium in his skull, turning him into the Atomic Man.
McCluskey, improbably, survived the incident. (He later said, “Of nine doctors, four thought I had a 50-50 chance and the rest just shook their heads.”) The massive dose of radiation left him with health problems, and decades later, his body still set off Geiger counters.
But the most painful legacy of the explosion was probably the isolation, both physical and social, as other humans shied away from his radioactive body.
When the accident happened on August 30, 1976, McCluskey had just returned to his job as a technician after a five-month strike had shut down the Plutonium Finishing Plant at Hanford.
The material he was working with had become unstable after the long hiatus and so right after he added nitric acid as instructed, it exploded, blowing out the glove box that was supposed to contain it.
His body—now covered in blood and shards of metal and glass—was taken to the decontamination center where he stayed in an isolation of concrete and steel.
Nobody was allowed near him out of fear for the radiation he still emitted.
“Blinded, his hearing damaged by the explosion, McCluskey spent the next three weeks at the unit cut off from personal contact,” described a later profile in People. “Monitored, like an alien, by nurses wearing respirators and protective clothing, he could neither see nor clearly understand the attendants who approached.”
The nurses scrubbed and shaved him every day—the bath towels and bathwater now part of Hanford’s radioactive waste.
He endured 600 shots of zinc DTPA, a drug that binds to radioactive metals.