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KT image © 2026 Mike McDowell

The Earth Isn't 6,000 Years Old

Every once in a while, I encounter someone who sincerely believes the Earth is ~6,000 years old. Not metaphorically. Not as a symbolic interpretation of Genesis. 

 

Literally. 

 

The planet. The mountains. The oceans. The dinosaurs. Every fossil. 

 

All of it supposedly happened within the last few thousand years.

No.

The Earth is approximately 4.54 billion years old, and the evidence is overwhelming. This isn't based on one scientist, one experiment, or some academic consensus that people are expected to accept on faith. It's supported by radiometric dating, geology, paleontology, astronomy, ice cores, and numerous other independent lines of evidence.

Different methods. Different disciplines. The same conclusion.

Our planet is ancient and the rocks don't care about Genesis mythology.

Radioactive elements decay at predictable rates. By measuring radioactive isotopes in rocks and minerals, scientists can determine when geological processes occurred.

The geological record tells the same story. Sedimentary layers, fossils, volcanic formations, mountain ranges, and ancient ocean deposits document a planet shaped by immense spans of time.

We aren't guessing, we're measuring.

The stars create an even bigger problem. The Andromeda Galaxy (M31) is approximately 2.5 million light-years away. Its light has taken roughly 2.5 million years to reach us. Assuming the Milky Way and Andromeda are both roughly 100,000 light-years across, simple geometry lets us estimate Andromeda's distance using its 190 arcminute angular span on the sky. Converting 190 arcminutes to degrees gives 3.17 degrees. Using the small-angle formula, we divide the physical size by the angle to get a calculated distance of roughly 1.81 million light-years. This estimate falls short of the true distance—about 2.5 million light-years—primarily because Andromeda is actually significantly larger than the Milky Way, spanning over 150,000 light-years across, which pushes it farther away to occupy that same patch of our celestial sphere. 

So if the universe is only 6,000 years old, how did that light get here?

Magic!

The usual answer is that God created the light already in transit. In other words, God supposedly created a universe containing evidence of events that never actually happened.

The rocks are misleading us. 

The fossils are misleading us. 

The light is misleading us. 

The radioactive isotopes are misleading us.

This is not a scientific explanation. It's an unfalsifiable attempt to protect a predetermined conclusion.

And if a hypothesis can explain absolutely anything, it ultimately explains nothing.

People are free to interpret Genesis symbolically, theologically, or literally. They're also free to believe in God. But the moment someone claims that the Earth is 6,000 years old, they're making an empirical claim—and empirical claims are tested against evidence.

The evidence is clear.

The Earth is ancient. Life has been evolving for billions of years. Dinosaurs existed for more than 160 million years. Humans arrived extraordinarily late in the story. And no amount of biblical literalism changes any of that. What I find particularly frustrating is that young-Earth creationism makes the universe smaller. The actual history of our planet is magnificent. Continents have moved. Oceans have opened and disappeared. Mountains have risen and eroded. Entire ecosystems have evolved and vanished. Species have flourished and gone extinct. After billions of years of this, one species evolved the ability to investigate its own origins.

That's us.

Why would anyone want to replace that extraordinary history with a few thousand years and a collection of increasingly desperate explanations?

It's a strange double standard: the creation is offered as objective evidence for a God, but if your honest examination leads to naturalistic conclusions, the issue shifts from an intellectual disagreement to a spiritual failing. 

Just Birding!

Over the past several nights, NEXRAD radar picked up heavy bird migration, making it the perfect time to head back to the Pheasant Branch Creek Corridor for the 2026 fall warbler parade—and it delivered. My birding crew tallied 17 warbler species in total, highlighted by standout sightings of a male Black-throated Blue, Golden-winged, Blackburnian, and a Canada Warbler. Chestnut-sided Warblers were the most abundant of the bunch. Factoring in reports from other birders, at least 20 warbler species moved through the corridor—a testament to the site's ongoing value as a vital haven for migratory songbirds.

Here are all the species observed:

 

Canada Goose  

Mourning Dove  
Ruby-throated Hummingbird  
Green Heron  
Great Blue Heron  
Cooper's Hawk  
Red-tailed Hawk  
Belted Kingfisher  
Red-headed Woodpecker  
Red-bellied Woodpecker  
Downy Woodpecker  
Hairy Woodpecker  
Northern Flicker  
Eastern Wood-Pewee  
Eastern Phoebe  
Great Crested Flycatcher  
Blue-headed Vireo  
Red-eyed Vireo  
Blue Jay  
American Crow  
Black-capped Chickadee  
Tufted Titmouse  
White-breasted Nuthatch  
Red-breasted Nuthatch  
Blue-gray Gnatcatcher  
Northern House Wren  
European Starling  
Gray Catbird  
Gray-cheeked Thrush  
Swainson's Thrush  
Wood Thrush  
American Robin  
House Sparrow  
House Finch  
American Goldfinch

Pine Siskin  
Song Sparrow  
Ovenbird  
Northern Waterthrush  
Golden-winged Warbler  
Black-and-white Warbler  
Tennessee Warbler  
Nashville Warbler  
Common Yellowthroat  
American Redstart  
Northern Parula  
Magnolia Warbler  
Bay-breasted Warbler  
Blackburnian Warbler  
Chestnut-sided Warbler  
Black-throated Blue Warbler  
Black-throated Green Warbler  
Canada Warbler  
Wilson's Warbler  
Northern Cardinal  
Rose-breasted Grosbeak  
Indigo Bunting  

 

All images © 2026 Mike McDowell

Splendid Spring Green!

"To a rough approximation, and setting aside vertebrate chauvinism, it can be said that essentially all organisms are insects."

— Robert May 

Did you like those two videos? I've been super busy so I haven't had much time to sort through recent blog material, but I have been getting out on weekends. The Jonny Thompson video came up as a suggestion (he's new to me), but I've read most of Sean B. Carroll's books. If you've not read it, check out The Serengeti Rules. 

 

I love this month. September is sort of like May in reverse—southbound migrating birds come through, insects have a resurgence (or final emergence), and fall prairies put on a dramatic show. It's all very amazing and I'm grateful to be immersed in it.

 

With spring-fall tiger beetle species, my favorite to re-visit is Splendid Tiger Beetle (Cicindela splendida). Summer species like Ghost, Sandy Stream, and Punctured, have a single adult emergence in July or July and do not overwinter—alas, they perish at the end of the season. Spring-fall species emerge as adults mostly in August or September, feed for several weeks and then prepare burrows for overwintering. It isn't until the following spring that they mate and lay eggs. 

By my read, Splendid Tiger Beetles uncommon to kind of rare in Wisconsin, found reliably (with considerable effort) at Spring Green Preserve in Sauk County. While a few scattered sightings exist elsewhere, its small range means it probably deserves Special Concern status in the state, but I couldn't find it on WI DNR's Natural Heritage Inventory page. Perhaps I'll reach out.

As I've written here many times before, finding them requires a trip to the top of the bluff to the rocky outcroppings—this is where you'll find them hunting atop the flat rock surfaces. 

 

Like this ... 

And this ...

Here's one now!

While most are decently skittish, some occasionally allow me to get so close I can set my camera on the rock for low-angle portraiture.

The stilting and sun-facing postures are both strategies for thermoregulation. Stilting keeps their bodies elevated above hot surfaces, while the sun-facing posture minimizes exposure of the abdomen and thorax to direct sunlight. Maintaining a suitable body temperature is essential for optimal hunting and mating activity. When they get too hot, tiger beetles may engage in what's called “shuttling”—scurrying into the shade to cool down before returning to the open to resume hunting. For tiger beetles, it's all about maintaining the right body temperature.

This female Splendid was patrolling her own rock. Even when I spooked her a few times, she eventually came back to the same spot on the outcropping. 

 

What a gorgeous beetle ...

I just can't stop!

To add to the post, I thought I'd photograph a few wildflowers found around the outcroppings and elsewhere. There's Harebell, False Foxglove, Blazing Star, Flowering Spurge, and various asters. 

I was photographing this aster when ...

A "fly bee" came in. Actually, it's a hoverfly in the genus Syrphus. Lori and I still can't let go of the fact that, back in our old Wisconsin Naturalists Facebook group, someone repeatedly called these "fly bees." So now, we almost always refer to them that way. They're not bees—they're flies (diptera). They're also commonly, but incorrectly, called "bee flies." Really, though, they're mimics, using their bee-like appearance to fool potential predators.

 

I also observed my first "fall" Oblique-lined Tiger Beetle on the way back to the parking lot ... 

I'm thinking it's time to return to the Pheasant Branch Creek Corridor this weekend and watch the fall warbler parade. I'm not sure I'll do any digiscoping, but we'll see where the weekend takes me. I've accepted that 2026 will go down as a 12-species tiger beetle year, and that's OK. I do have to admit, though, that I get a little concerned when I miss species that are normally easier to find—or at least reliably findable with some effort.

 

All images © 2026 Mike McDowell

The mind-bending probability of our existence

Stupidity vs. Evil

It will always be ...

Lake Huron rolls, Superior sings 

In the rooms of her ice-water mansion 

Old Michigan steams like a young man's dreams 

The islands and bays are for sportsmen 

And farther below Lake Ontario 

Takes in what Lake Erie can send her 

And the iron boats go as the mariners all know 

With the gales of November remembered

But maybe ...

Paya & Seagull Bar!

"Live in the sunshine, swim the sea, drink the wild air's salubrity."

 

— Ralph Waldo Emerson

Sue and I returned to Paya Lake in Oconto County last week, but I'm finally getting around to blogging about it now. While there are opportunities for all sorts of nature excursions at the Chequamegon-Nicolet National Forest, our favorite destination when we're up there is always Seagull Bar State Natural Area—it's just absolutely stunning. This time it was gusty and waves crashed against the sandy shore throughout the day. Temperatures were in the low 70s, so it was still comfortable for hiking, exploration, and nature photography.

Designated a State Natural Area in 1962, Seagull Bar SNA is a Marinette-based sand spit and marsh featuring Green Bay's only true dune complex. Fluctuating water levels constantly reshape its mudflats and shallow lagoons, supporting rich native flora ranging from rushes to marram grass. This dynamic landscape acts as a critical migration stopover habitat for shorebirds, gulls, waterfowl, and other birds.

But I adore it for ...

Tiger Beetles!

This is the only location I know of in Wisconsin where I can reliably find Cicindela hirticollis rhodensis, the State Endangered subspecies of Hairy-necked Tiger Beetle. Despite respectable numbers here, entomologist Dr. Mathew Brust has noted that this location seems to be their last good stronghold along the Wisconsin side of Lake Michigan, as they have vanished from most other areas. According to Brust, these beetles generally do not tolerate increases in human activity; their larvae dig insanely shallow burrows—only three to six inches deep—and will readily abandon a burrow to crawl across the sand and dig a new one if the moisture gradient changes.

The above beetle shows nearly complete but weak maculations, while this this next one is more teneral with less obvious markings. 

Classic rhodensis. 

 

Slightly more elevated on its legs ...

Despite mostly to partly cloudy skies, the shifting light worked to my advantage. By timing my shots carefully, I avoided harsh sunlight detail blowout while maintaining fast enough shutter speeds at f/22 to f/25 for focal depth of field. Bright but diffused light is ideal for softening glare to capture the intricate microsculpture of their elytral surface.

Subtle clues led me to Twelve-spotted Tiger Beetles (Cicindela duodecimguttata) further up the sandbar. It appeared that their usual area had recently been submerged, forcing them to retreat to higher ground on an upper ridge. So, that makes 12 species for 2026. Will there be Cow Path or Virginia Metallic? 

Above and below, a Bronzed Tiger Beetle (Cicindela repanda). There was also a single Festive (Cicindela scutellaris) found, but the Hairy-neckeds far outnumbered the other three species. Still, four species at a single spot is very respectable. Spring Green's 10 or 11 is the best I know of, but I do have other tiger beetle haunts where I can find half a dozen or so.

I'm pretty certain this is Obedient Plant (Physostegia virginiana) but I've never seen them so short. 

I've read that plants growing directly in beach sand or sand dunes exposed to wave action, wind, and low-nutrient substrates can exhibit severe dwarfing. Thus, a species that normally reaches 3 to 4 feet in rich inland soils often flowers at under 12 inches on sandy coastal shores.

The ever-cool Shoreline Wolfspider (Arctosa littoralis)...

Just remember the next time you're at the beach ... they're everywhere!

But harmless.

As I was wrapping up my tiger beetle photography efforts, I spotted a small group of shorebirds that consisted of Least Sandpipers and Greater Yellowlegs. There was also a Baird's we had seen earlier, but there was one other shorebird that looked a little different, rendering a moment of mental database consideration. 

 

But then it hit me ...

Holy smokes! A Red Knot (Calidris canutus rufa)—juvenile. 

 

This federally threatened subspecies breeds in the central Canadian Arctic and uses the Atlantic Flyway as its primary migratory corridor. While the vast majority of rufa knots travel along the Atlantic coastline, a small percentage of migrating birds travel through the interior flyways—including the Great Lakes region and places like the Green Bay shoreline.

Across four decades of birding, I've only observed this species three times, with the last sighting dating back to 2015. If I'm recalling correctly, my life bird was at Nine Springs in Dane County, but this encounter was by far my best view yet—and a lifer for Sue.

Alas, once I got home from the trip, an eBird check revealed other birders had spotted it the day before, but that didn't dull the thrill of finding it. With no reports since our sighting, we clearly caught a lucky break—the shorebird has likely resumed its southward journey. It's absolutely astonishing how far these birds migrate. Consider the true story of B95.

Some final views of Seagull Bar SNA ...

Before heading back to the parking lot, Sue and I took a breather sitting on a log when a couple of Monarch butterflies flew in. One landed the sand just past our feet while the other kept flying around me, so I finally extended my hand and it immediately landed on it.

I've had butterflies land on me before, but this was the first time I could feel one using its proboscis to discharge fluid onto my skin to dissolve and reabsorb nutrients. It might sound kind of gross, but this process allows them to extract essential salts and minerals from sources like rocks, carrion, and human skin. When the Monarch on the sand took flight, this one went along with it. Perhaps a coincidence, but it was a pretty cool interaction with another species. Anthropomorphize if you like.

 

And that's it for another Nature Adventure at Seagull Bar SNA! 

Though it was a short trip, we also went to Mountain Fire Lookout Tower for great views of the Chequamegon-Nicolet National Forest.

The cabin at the top is only 7'x7' so if there are other visitors it can get a little tight.

This is what it looks like in every direction, but photos don't do it justice.

One morning we went to McCaslin Brook to look for migrating songbirds, but only Red-eyed Vireos were present. However, near the cabin we did find Yellow-rumped, Black-and-white, and Magnolia Warblers. 

I saw this White Underwing (Catocala relicta) fly to a tree and quickly digiscoped a photo of it ...

We also returned to Cathedral Pines for a short hike.

But stopped only to photograph mushrooms.

With August in the books, blogging took a bit of a back seat this month—mostly thanks to my relentless (but failed) search for Sandy Stream Tiger Beetles. Even so, no time in the field is ever truly wasted. I used to contend that you don't learn from what you fail to discover, but that isn't always true. I think I got this sensibility from a book I read by British physicist Paul Davies, where he wrote:

 

"If God is to be found, it must surely be through what we discover about the world, not what we fail to discover." 

 

Davies was speaking specifically about the 'God of the gaps'—the trap of looking for meaning in what science hasn't explained yet. But the principle translates well to the field: empty hands don't mean an empty outing if you pay attention to what the absence tells you.

 

All images © 2026 Mike McDowell