case, literal as much as figurative—had settled, some three-quarters of all
species had been wiped out.
The clay layer at Gubbio, with a candy marking the spot.
The evidence of the asteroid’s impact lies in a thin layer of clay about
halfway up the gorge. Sightseers can park at a turnoff constructed
nearby. There’s also a little kiosk explaining, in Italian, the site’s
significance. The clay layer is easy to spot. It’s been gouged out by
hundreds of fingers, a bit like the toes of the bronze St. Peter in Rome,
worn down by the kisses of pilgrims. The day I visited was gray and
blustery, and I had the place to myself. I wondered what had prompted all
that fingering. Was it simple curiosity? A form of geologic rubbernecking?
Or was it something more empathetic: the desire to make contact—
however attenuated—with a lost world? I, too, of course, had to stick my
finger in. I poked around in the groove and scraped out a pebble-sized
piece of clay. It was the color of worn brick and the consistency of dried
mud. I put it in an old candy wrapper and stuck it in my pocket—my own
little chunk of planetary disaster.
* * *