shinbits said:
In a sense, you're right; if the dunes did in fact play a part, it's possible in two hundred million years or so, if life on earth actually started any where near that long ago. It's still a long shot, but it does make more sense in that time frame. But that's only if you assume that the nests were actually buried that way.
And you'd still have the problem of why in that incredible amount of time, wasn't the nest made of only mud and sand destroyed by the combination of incredible wieght on it, and the factors of all types of weather erosion.
It's only mud and sand.
I think we need to get the geology right, at least for the nest in New Mexico. That's because you still seem to have some images and concepts wrong. First off, most of the nest is already undergound, only a small part is above ground. Because you don't like to follow links, I'm posting part of an article of the person who actually found the nest in New Mexico. There are hints in the story of the geology of the hill in which the nest were found, why the hill is still there and the state of the nest. Here's a cut and past from this
LINK:
Paleontologist Stephen Hasiotis is finding what his colleagues have long overlooked: nests, hives, and trackways that are tens of millions of years older than anyone thought they could be.
Just north of the town of Gallup, New Mexico, is a hill of olive-colored sandstone. One late spring afternoon paleontologist Stephen Hasiotis walks up its grassy apron, crosses over onto bare rock, and loses his composure. "Oh man, oh man," he mutters. "Look at all this."
He kneels by a stub of white rock--one of many--that just barely pushes through the darker stone around it. Its surface is not the smooth, featureless face you'd expect from an exposure to wind and rain; rather it shows a mass of fine tangles, of tubes branching into more tubes or tying themselves off in blobs. The rock looks as if someone had patiently modeled it before it hardened, some 155 million years ago. And in fact, according to Hasiotis, someone did. "Termites," he says. "This was all done by termites."
Originally this hill was a sand dune in a desert; when the climate turned damper, a stabilizing soil buried the dune and eventually formed a hard brown mudstone that now sits like a cap on top of the sandstone hill.
Geologists who have visited the hill over the years assumed that the strange patches of white rock on the slopes were formed by lightning, which, in striking the sand, fused the grains into columns of a mineral known as fulgurite. But in 1995 a group of geologists noted the intricate texture of these white rocks which fulgurite doesn't have--and decided they needed to call in Hasiotis.
Hasiotis is a rare sort of paleontologist: he searches the land for evidence of animals that are unlikely to have left behind any fossilized remains. He looks for the leavings of invertebrates--such as insects, spiders, crustaceans, and worms--which, from a fossil hunter's perspective, are just made of the wrong stuff. Some are soft and pulpy; others have exoskeletons made of protein known as chitin. "Chitin's a good source of nutrition for other insects and soil critters, so the bodies break down relatively fast," Hasiotis points out. As a result, the fossil record gives paleontologists a skewed vision of the history of life on land. We know that today invertebrates are staggeringly diverse, with perhaps 5 million species of insects alone (mammals number only 4,000), and that they are essential cogs in the machinery of ecosystems: they pollinate plants, break down organic matter, help create soils, and alter the composition of the atmosphere. Presumably, terrestrial invertebrates were just as important tens or hundreds of millions of years ago, but without fossils their history is difficult to reconstruct. Still, it's not impossible: while invertebrates may not leave bones behind, they do leave permanent marks on the land in the form of trails, tunnels, nests, burrows, and other cryptic inscriptions. Recognizing these traces is a craft that only a few scientists have mastered. They are known as ichnologists--from the Greek ichnos, for "track." Hasiotis is, in a sense, a paleontological tracker.
When he first came to this hill in 1995, he could see right away that the white rocks bore the signs of ancient termite activity. In semiarid regions colonies of termites routinely set up nests around the roots of a tree or shrub. They dig out tunnels and chambers around the plant and use chewed-up wood and their own droppings to line the walls. The mound becomes a kind of insect castle, with chambers dedicated to specific purposes: some are filled with eggs, others with waste or corpses or the fungus the termites harvest for food. As the colony's population increases to a million or beyond, workers dig out more and more rooms, until eventually they build a tower up to 30 feet tall; underground, their networks may stretch more than 100 feet.
Now, as he climbs the hill, Hasiotis points out the clues that tell him these rocks were once such termite nests. He picks up loose hunks of rock lying on the sandstone that have the dribbly look of melted candle wax, and he indicates the tunnels and the pancake-shaped fungus gardens. He traces his finger over broken corridors, indicating the hair-thin walls that the termites made in the sand--material so tough that it is still visible after 155 million years. "This stuff is like termite concrete," Hasiotis says.
Because this is only the third time Hasiotis has climbed the hill, he is seeing much of it for the first time. "I still cannot believe it. I still cannot freaking believe it," he says as he stares around him. "Here's a place you could come back to for ten years and not see everything." The farther he walks, the more astounding the termite nests become. One is so wide that Hasiotis--a big man with the body of a bouncer--can't get his arms around it. Another stretches along the slope of the hillside for ten feet, twisting and branching, before diving into the ground.
Hasiotis scrambles up to the mudstone cap and finds a path down to the other, as-yet-unseen side of the hill. Dozens of mounds are strewn here as well. "This is so sick!" he shouts. A ten-foot-tall hunk of termite nest buttresses a sandstone spire. Another rivals a redwood stump in its girth. These are the biggest fossilized termite mounds ever found--and 60 million years older than the oldest fossil of an actual termite. Yet they are only a fraction of their original size. When they were inhabited by living termites, they would have reached all the way to the surface of the ground, which is marked today by the mudstone cap. Hasiotis glances downhill at the mounds and then up to the summit. "I'd guess that some of these were 170 feet long."
Sometimes Hasiotis describes ichnology as a kind of animal archeology, and there could be no better example than this hill outside Gallup. "It's a termite city," he says as he walks among the towers and broken rubble. "It's like we're in The Planet of the Apes, when Charlton Heston walks through the ruins of New York City. But here it's this great termite civilization 155 million years old."
Go to the link above to read the rest.
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